WESSEX   TALES 


WESSEX    TALES 


THAT   IS   TO   SAY 

AN  IMAGINATIVE  WOMAN  — THE 
THREE  STRANGERS— THE  WITH- 
ERED  ARM  — FELLOW -TOWNSMEN 
—INTERLOPERS  AT  THE  KNAP— 
AND  THE  DISTRACTED  PREACHER 


BY 

THOMAS     HARDY 


WITH   FRONTISPIECE  BY 

H.  MACBETH-RAEBURN 

AND 

A  MAP  OF  WESSEX 


i';3ss 


NEW  YORK 
HARPER   &   BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS 

FRANKLIN  SQUARE 


Books  by 
THOMAS  HARDY 

DESPERATE   REMEDIES 

FAR  FROM   THE   MADDING   CROWD 

A  GROUP  OF   NOBLE   DAMES 

THE  HAND   OF  ETHELBERTA 

JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

A   LAODICEAN 

LIFE'S  LITTLE   IRONIES 

THE   MAYOR  OF  CASTERBRIDGE 

A   PAIR  OF   BLUE  EYES 

THE   RETURN   OF  THE   NATIVE 

TESS  OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES 

THE   TRUMPET   MAJOR 

TWO   ON  A   TOWER 

UNDER   THE   GREENWOOD   TREE 

THE  WELL-BELOVED 

WESSEX   TALES 

THE  WOODLANDERS 

Crown  8vo. 

ISmo.     Thin  Paper  Edition. 

Cloth.     Leather. 

A  CHANGED  MAN.  Post  8vo 
WESSEX  POEMS.  First  Series 
WESSEX  POEMS.     Second  Series 


HARPER  &   BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK 


PniMTCO  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OP  AMENIC* 

A-0 

ri  Q  n:  f:-; 


PREFACE 

An  apology  is  perhaps  needed  for  the  neglect  of  contrast 
which  is  shown  by  presenting  two  consecutive  stories  of 
hangmen  in  such  a  small  collection  as  the  following.  But 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  county-towns  tales  of  executions 
used  to  form  a  large  proportion  of  the  local  traditions  ;  and 
though  never  personally  acquainted  with  any  chief  operator 
at  such  scenes,  the  writer  of  these  pages  had  as  a  boy 
the  privilege  of  being  on  speaking  terms  with  a  man  who 
applied  for  the  office,  and  who  sank  into  an  incurable 
melancholy  because  he  failed  to  get  it,  some  slight  mitiga- 
tion of  his  grief  being  to  dwell  upon  striking  episodes  in 
the  lives  of  those  happier  ones  who  had  held  it  with  suc- 
cess and  renown.  His  tale  of  disappointment  used  to 
cause  some  wonder  why  his  ambition  should  have  taken 
such  an  unfortunate  form,  but  its  nobleness  was  never 
questioned.  In  those  days,  too,  there  was  still  living  an 
old  woman  who,  for  the  cure  of  some  eating  disease,  had 
been  taken  in  her  youth  to  have  her  'blood  turned'  by  a 
convict's  corpse,  in  the  manner  described  in  *  The  Withered 
Arm.' 

Since  writing  this  story  some  years  ago  I  have  been  re- 
minded by  an  aged  friend  who  knew  '  Rhoda  Brook '  that, 
in  relating  her  dream,  my  forgetfulness  has  weakened  the 
facts  out  of  which  the  tale  grew.  In  reality  it  was  while 
lying  down  on  a  hot  afternoon  that  the  incubus  oppressed 
her  and  she  flung  it  off,  with  the  results  upon  the  body  of 
the  original  as  described.    To  my  mind  the  occurrence  of 


PREFACE 

such  a  vision  in  the  daytime  is  more  impressive  than  if  it 
had  happened  in  a  midnight  dream.  Readers  are  therefore 
asked  to  correct  the  misrelation,  which  affords  an  instance 
of  how  our  imperfect  memories  insensibly  formalize  the 
fresh  originality  of  living  fact — from  whose  shape  they 
slowly  depart,  as  machine-made  castings  depart  by  degrees 
from  the  sharp  hand-work  of  the  mould. 

Among  the  many  devices  for  concealing  smuggled  goods 
in  caves  and  pits  of  the  earth,  that  of  planting  an  apple- 
tree  in  a  tray  or  box  which  was  placed  over  the  mouth 
of  the  pit  is,  I  believe,  unique,  and  it  is  detailed  in  one 
of  the  tales  precisely  as  described  by  an  old  carrier  of 
*  tubs ' — a  man  who  was  afterwards  in  my  father's  employ 
for  over  thirty  years.  I  never  gathered  from  his  reminis- 
cences what  means  were  adopted  for  lifting  the  tree,  which, 
with  its  roots,  earth,  and  receptacle,  must  have  been  of 
considerable  weight.  There  is  no  doubt,  however,  that  the 
thing  was  done  through  many  years.  My  informant  often 
spoke,  too,  of  the  horribly  suffocating  sensation  produced 
by  the  pair  of  spirit-tubs  slung  upon  the  chest  and  back, 
after  stumbling  with  the  burden  of  them  for  several  miles 
inland  over  a  rough  country  and  in  darkness.  He  said 
that  though  years  of  his  youth  and  young  manhood  were 
spent  in  this  irregular  business,  his  profits  from  the  same, 
taken  all  together,  did  not  average  the  wages  he  might 
have  earned  in  a  steady  employment,  whilst  the  fatigues 
and  risks  were  excessive. 

I  may  add  that  the  first  story  in  the  series  turns  upon 

a    physical    possibility    that    may    attach    to    women    of 

imaginative  temperament,  and   that   is  well  supported  by 

the  experiences  of  medical  men  and  other  observers  of  such 

manifestations. 

T.  H. 

April  1896. 


CONTENTS 


An  Imaginative  Woman 

The  Three  Strangers 

The  Withered  Arm 
A  Lorn  Milkmaid 
The  Young  Wife 
A  Vision  . 

A  Suggestion  . 
Conjuror  Trendlb 
A  Second  Attempt 
A  Ride  . 
A  Water-side  Hermit 
A  Rencounter 


rACB 

33 

^3 
6S 
68 

73 
78 
83 
87 
91 
97 

lOI 


\^ 


vu 


CONTENTS 


Fellow-Townsmen  .  .  •  .  • 

Interlopers  at  the  Knap  •  •  . 

The  Distracted  Preacher         .  .  , 

How  HIS  Cold  was  Cured   . 
How  he  saw  two  other  Men 
The  Mysterious  Greatcoat 
At  the  Time  of  the  New  Moon   . 
How  they  went  to  Lulstead  Cove 
The  Great  Search  at  Nether-Moynton 


rAca 
IDS 

m 

219 

234 
238 
247 
256 
267 


The  Walk  to  Warm'kll  Cross,  and  afterwards     277 


AN  IMAGINATIVE  WOMAN 


AN  IMACmATIVE  WOMAN 

When  WilUam  Marchmlll  had  finished  his  inquiries 
for  lodgings  at  a  well-known  watering-place  in  Upper 
Wessex,  he  returned  to  the  hotel  to  find  his  wife.  She, 
with  the  children,  had  rambled  along  the  shore,  and 
Marchmill  followed  in  the  direction  indicated  by  the 
military-looking  hall-porter. 

'  By  Jove,  how  far  you've  gone !  I  am  quite  out  of 
breath,'  Marchmill  said,  rather  impatiently,  when  he 
came  up  with  his  wife,  who  was  reading  as  she  walked, 
the  three  children  being  considerably  further  ahead  with 
the  nurse. 

Mrs.  Marchmill  started  out  of  the  reverie  into  which 
the  book  had  thrown  her.  'Yes,'  she  said,  'you've 
been  such  a  long  time.  I  was  tired  of  staying  in  that 
dreary  hotel.  But  I  am  sorry  if  you  have  wanted  me. 
Will  ? ' 

'Well,  I  have  had  trouble  to  suit  myself.  When 
you  see  the  airy  and  comfortable  rooms  heard  of,  you 
find  they  are  stuffy  and  uncomfortable.  Will  you  come 
and  see  if  what  I've  fixed  on  will  do  ?  There  is  not 
much  room,  I  am  afraid ;  but  I  can  light  on  nothing 
better.     The  town  is  rather  full.' 

The  pair  left  the  children  and  nurse  to  continue  their 
ramble,  and  went  back  together. 

In  age  well-balanced,  in  personal  appearance  fairly 

3 


WESSEX   TALES 

matched,  and  in  domestic  requirements  conformable,  in 
temper  this  couple  differed,  though  even  here  they  did 
not  often  clash,  he  being  equable,  if  not  lymphatic,  and 
she  decidedly  nervous  and  sanguine.  It  was  to  their 
tastes  and  fancies,  those  smallest,  greatest  particulars, 
that  no  common  denominator  could  be  applied.  March- 
mill  considered  his  wife's  likes  and  inclinations  somewhat 
silly;  she  considered  his  sordid  and  material.  The 
husband's  business  was  that  of  a  gunmaker  in  a  thriving 
city  northwards,  and  his  soul  was  in  that  business 
always ;  the  lady  was  best  characterized  by  that  super- 
annuated phrase  of  elegance  '  a  votary  of  the  muse.'  An 
impressionable,  palpitating  creature  was  Ella,  shrinking 
humanely  from  detailed  knowledge  of  her  husband's 
trade  whenever  she  reflected  that  everything  he  manu- 
factured had  for  its  purpose  the  destruction  of  life.  She 
could  only  recover  her  equanimity  by  assuring  herself 
that  some,  at  least,  of  his  weapons  were  sooner  or  later 
used  for  the  extermination  of  horrid  vermin  and  animals 
almost  as  cruel  to  their  inferiors  in  species  as  human 
beings  were  to  theirs. 

She  had  never  antecedently  regarded  this  occupation 
of  his  as  any  objection  to  having  him  for  a  husband. 
Indeed,  the  necessity  of  getting  life-leased  at  all  cost, 
a  cardinal  virtue  which  all  good  mothers  teach,  kept 
her  from  thinking  of  it  at  all  till  she  had  closed  with 
William,  had  passed  the  honeymoon,  and  reached  the 
reflecting  stage.  Then,  like  a  person  who  has  stumbled 
upon  some  object  in  the  dark,  she  wondered  what  she 
had  got ;  mentally  walked  round  it,  estimated  it ;  whether 
it  were  rare  or  common;  contained  gold,  silver,  or 
lead;  were  a  clog  or  a  pedestal,  everything  to  her  or 
nothing. 

She  came  to  some  vague  conclusions,  and  since  then 
had  kept  her  heart  alive  by  pitying  her  proprietor's 
obtuseness  and  want  of  refinement,  pitying  herself,  and 
letting  off  her  delicate  and  ethereal  emotions  in  imagi- 

4 


AN   IMAGINATIVE  WOMAN 

native  occupations,  day-dreams,  and  night-sighs,  which 
perhaps  would  not  much  have  disturbed  WiUia  ti  if  he 
had  known  of  them. 

Her  figure  was  small,  elegant,  and  slight  in  build, 
tripping,  or  rather  bounding,  in  movement.  She  was 
dark-eyed,  and  had  that  marvellously  bright  and  liquid 
sparkle  in  each  pupil  which  characterizes  persons  of 
Ella's  cast  of  soul,  and  is  too  often  a  cause  of  heart- 
ache to  the  possessor's  male  friends,  ultimately  some- 
times to  herself.  Her  husband  was  a  tall,  long-featured 
man,  with  a  brown  beard ;  he  had  a  pondering  regard ; 
and  was,  it  must  be  added,  usually  kind  and  tolerant 
to  her.  He  spoke  in  squarely  shaped  sentences,  and 
was  supremely  satisfied  with  a  condition  of  sublunary 
things  which  made  weapons  a  necessity. 

Husband  and  wife  walked  till  they  had  reached  the 
house  they  were  in  search  of,  which  stood  in  a  terrace 
facing  the  sea,  and  was  fronted  by  a  small  garden  of 
wind-proof  and  salt-proof  evergreens,  stone  steps  leading 
up  to  the  porch.  It  had  its  number  in  the  row,  but,  being 
rather  larger  than  the  rest,  was  in  addition  sedulously 
distinguished  as  Coburg  House  by  its  landlady,  though 
everybody  else  called  it  'Thirteen,  New  Parade.'  The 
spot  was  bright  and  lively  now ;  but  in  winter  it  became 
necessary  to  place  sandbags  against  the  door,  and  to 
stuff  up  the  keyhole  against  the  wind  and  rain,  which 
had  worn  the  paint  so  thin  that  the  priming  and  knotting 
showed  through. 

The  householder,  who  had  been  watching  for  the 
gentleman's  return,  met  them  in  the  passage,  and 
showed  the  rooms.  She  informed  them  that  she  was 
a  professional  man's  widow,  left  in  needy  circumstances 
by  the  rather  sudden  death  of  her  husband,  and  she 
spoke  anxiously  of  the  conveniences  of  the  establish- 
ment. 

Mrs.  Marchmill  sai  1  that  she  liked  the  situation  and 
the  house;   but,  it  being  small,  there  would  not  be 

5 


WESSEX  TALES 

accommodation  enough,  unless  she  could  have  all  the 
rooms. 

The  landlady  mused  with  an  air  of  disappointment. 
She  wanted  the  visitors  to  be  her  tenants  very  badly, 
she  said,  with  obvious  honesty.  But  unfortunately  two 
of  the  rooms  were  occupied  permanently  by  a  bachelor 
gentleman.  He  did  not  pay  season  prices,  it  was  true  ; 
but  as  he  kept  on  his  apartments  all  the  year  round, 
and  was  an  extremely  nice  and  interesting  young  man, 
who  gave  no  trouble,  she  did  not  like  to  turn  him  out 
for  a  month's  '  let,*  even  at  a  high  figure.  '  Perhaps, 
however,'  she  added,  'he  might  offer  to  go  for  a 
time.' 

They  would  not  hear  of  this,  and  went  back  to  the 
hotel,  intending  to  proceed  to  the  agent's  to  inquire 
further.  Hardly  had  they  sat  down  to  tea  when  the 
landlady  called.  Her  gentleman,  she  said,  had  been 
so  obliging  as  to  offer  to  give  up  his  rooms  for  three 
or  four  weeks  rather  than  drive  the  new-comers  away. 

*  It  is  very  kind,  but  we  won't  inconvenience  him  in 
that  way,'  said  the  Marchmills. 

'  O,  it  won't  inconvenience  him,  I  assure  you  ! '  said 
the  landlady  eloquently.  •  You  see,  he's  a  different  sort 
of  young  man  from  most — dreamy,  solitary,  rather 
melancholy — and  he  cares  more  to  be  here  when  the 
south-westerly  gales  are  beating  against  the  door,  and 
the  sea  washes  over  the  Parade,  and  there's  not  a  soul 
in  the  place,  than  he  does  now  in  the  season.  He'd 
just  as  soon  be  where,  in  fact,  he's  going  temporarily, 
to  a  little  cottage  on  the  Island  opposite,  for  a  change.* 
She  hoped  therefore  that  they  would  come. 

The  Marchmill  family  accordingly  took  possession 
of  the  house  next  day,  and  it  seemed  to  suit  them  very 
well.  After  luncheon  Mr.  Marchmill  strolled  out  to- 
wards the  pier,  and  Mrs.  Marchmill,  having  despatched 
the  children  to  their  outdoor  amusements  on  the  sands, 
settled  herself  iu  more  completely,  examining  this  and 

6 


AN   IMAGINATIVE  WOMAN 

that  article,  and  testing  the  reflecting  powers  of  the 
mirror  in  the  wardrobe  door. 

In  the  small  back  sitting-room,  which  had  been  the 
young  bachelor's,  she  found  furniture  of  a  more  personal 
nature  than  in  the  rest.  Shabby  books,  of  correct 
rather  than  rare  editions,  were  piled  up  in  a  queerly 
reserved  manner  in  corners,  as  if  the  previous  occupant 
had  not  conceived  the  possibility  that  any  incoming 
person  of  the  season's  bringing  could  care  to  look 
inside  them.  The  landlady  hovered  on  the  threshold 
to  rectify  anything  that  Mrs.  Marchmill  might  not  find 
to  her  satisfaction. 

'  I'll  make  this  my  own  little  room,*  said  the  latter, 
*  because  the  books  are  here.  By  the  way,  the  person 
who  has  left  seems  to  have  a  good  many.  He  won't 
mind  my  reading  some  of  them,  Mrs.  Hooper,  I  hope  ? ' 

'  O  dear  no,  ma'am.  Yes,  he  has  a  good  many. 
You  see,  he  is  in  the  literary  line  himself  somewhat. 
He  is  a  poet — yes,  really  a  poet — and  he  has  a  little 
income  of  his  own,  which  is  enough  to  write  verses 
on,  but  not  enough  for  cutting  a  figure,  even  if  he 
cared  to.' 

'  A  poet !     O,  I  did  not  know  that.' 

Mrs.  Marchmill  opened  one  of  the  books,  and  saw 
the  owner's  name  written  on  the  title-page.  *  Dear 
me ! '  she  continued ;  *  I  know  his  name  very  well — 
Robert  Trewe — of  course  I  do ;  and  his  writings  ! 
And  it  is  h's  rooms  we  have  taken,  and  Aim  we  have 
turned  out  of  his  home  ? ' 

Ella  Marchmill,  sitting  down  alone  a  few  minutes 
later,  thought  with  interested  surprise  of  Robert  Trewe. 
Her  own  latter  history  will  best  explain  that  interest. 
Herself  the  only  daughter  of  a  struggling  man  of  letters, 
she  had  during  the  last  year  or  two  taken  to  writing 
poems,  in  an  endeavour  to  find  a  congenial  channel 
in  which  to  let  flow  her  painfully  embayed  emotions, 
whose  former  limpidity  and  sparkle  seemed  departing 


WESSEX  TALES 

in  the  stagnation  caused  by  the  routine  of  a  practical 
household  and  the  gloom  of  bearing  children  to  a 
commonplace  father.  These  poems,  subscribed  with  a 
masculine  pseudonym,  had  appeared  in  various  obscure 
magazines,  and  in  two  cases  in  rather  prominent  ones. 
In  the  second  of  the  latter  the  page  which  bore  her 
effusion  at  the  bottom,  in  smallish  print,  bore  at  the 
top,  in  large  print,  a  few  verses  on  the  same  subject  by 
this  very  man,  Robert  Trewe.  Both  of  them  had,  in 
fact,  been  struck  by  a  tragic  incident  reported  in  the 
daily  papers,  and  had  used  it  simultaneously  as  an 
inspiration,  the  editor  remarking  in  a  note  upon  the 
coincidence,  and  that  the  excellence  of  both  poems 
prompted  him  to  give  them  together. 

After  that  event  Ella,  otherwise  'John  Ivy,*  had 
watched  with  much  attention  the  appearance  anywhere 
in  print  of  verse  bearing  the  signature  of  Robert  Trewe, 
who,  with  a  man's  unsusceptibility  on  the  question  of 
sex,  had  never  once  thought  of  passing  himself  off  as 
a  woman.  To  be  sure,  Mrs.  Marchmill  had  satisfied 
herself  with  a  sort  of  reason  for  doing  the  contrary  in 
her  case ;  that  nobody  might  beUeve  in  her  inspiration 
if  they  found  that  the  sentiments  came  from  a  pushing 
tradesman's  wife,  from  the  mother  of  three  children  by 
a  matter-of-fact  small  arms  manufacturer. 

Trewe's  verse  contrasted  with  that  of  the  rank  and 
file  of  recent  minor  poets  in  being  impassioned  rather 
than  ingenious,  luxuriant  rather  than  finished.  Neither 
symboliste  nor  decadent,  he  was  a  pessin)ist  in  so  far  as 
that  character  applies  to  a  man  who  looks  at  the  worst 
contingencies  as  well  as  the  best  in  the  human  condition. 
Being  Uttle  attracted  by  excellences  of  form  and  rhythm 
apart  from  content,  he  sometimes,  when  feeling  outran 
his  artistic  speed,  perpetrated  sonnets  in  the  loosely 
rhymed  Elizabethan  fashion,  which  every  right-minded 
reviewer  said  he  ought  not  to  have  done. 

With  sad  and  hopeless  envy,  Ella  Marchmill  had 

S 


AN   IMAGINATIVE  WOMAN 

often  and  often  scanned  the  rival  poet's  work,  so  much 
stronger  as  it  always  was  than  her  own  feeble  lines.  She 
had  imitated  him,  and  her  inability  to  touch  his  level 
would  send  her  into  fits  of  despondency.  Months 
passed  away  thus,  till  she  observed  from  the  publishers' 
list  that  Trewe  had  collected  his  fugitive  pieces  into  a 
volume,  which  was  duly  issued,  and  was  much  or  little 
praised  according  to  chance,  and  had  a  sale  quite  suffi- 
cient to  pay  for  the  printing. 

This  step  onward  had  suggested  to  John  Ivy  the 
idea  of  collecting  her  pieces  also,  or  at  any  rate  of 
making  up  a  book  of  her  rhymes  by  adding  m^any  in 
manuscript  to  the  few  that  had  seen  the  light,  for  she 
had  been  able  to  get  no  great  number  into  print.  A 
ruinous  charge  was  made  for  costs  of  publication;  a 
few  reviews  noticed  her  poor  little  volume ;  but  nobody 
talked  of  it,  nobody  bought  it,  and  it  fell  dead  in  a 
fortnight — if  it  had  ever  been  alive. 

The  author's  thoughts  were  diverted  to  another 
groove  just  then  by  the  discovery  that  she  was  going 
to  have  a  third  child,  and  the  collapse  of  her  poetical 
venture  had  perhaps  less  effect  upon  her  mind  than  it 
might  have  done  if  she  had  been  domestically  unoccu- 
pied. Her  husband  had  paid  the  publisher's  bill  with 
the  doctor's,  and  there  it  all  had  ended  for  the  time. 
But,  though  less  than  a  poet  of  her  century,  Ella  was 
more  than  a  mere  multiplier  of  her  kind,  and  latterly 
she  had  begun  to  feel  the  old  afflatus  once  more.  And 
now  by  an  odd  conjunction  she  found  herself  in  the 
rooms  of  Robert  Trewe. 

She  thoughtfully  rose  from  her  chair  and  searched 
the  apartment  with  the  interest  of  a  fellow-tradesman. 
Yes,  the  volume  of  his  own  verse  was  among  the  rest. 
Though  quite  familiar  with  its  contents,  she  read  it  here 
as  if  it  spoke  aloud  to  her,  then  called  up  Mrs.  Hooper, 
the  landlady,  for  some  trivial  service,  and  inquired  again 
about  the  young  man. 

9 


WESSEX  TALES 

*  Well,  I'm  sure  you'd  be  interested  in  him,  ma'am, 
if  you  could  see  him,  only  he's  so  shy  that  I  don't 
suppose  you  will,'  Mrs.  Hooper  seemed  nothing  loth 
to  minister  to  her  tenant's  curiosity  about  her  prede- 
cessor, *  Lived  here  long  ?  Yes,  nearly  two  years. 
He  keeps  on  his  rooms  even  when  he's  not  here :  the 
soft  air  of  this  place  suits  his  chest,  and  he  likes  to  be 
able  to  come  back  at  any  time.  He  is  mostly  writing 
or  reading,  and  doesn't  see  many  people,  though,  for 
the  matter  of  that,  he  is  such  a  good,  kind  young  fellow 
that  folks  would  only  be  too  glad  to  be  friendly  with 
him  if  they  knew  him.  You  don't  meet  kind-hearted 
people  every  day,' 

» Ah,  he's  kind-hearted  .  .  .  and  good.* 

*  Yes ;  he'll  oblige  me  in  anything  if  I  ask  him. 
"  Mr,  Trewe,"  I  say  to  him  sometimes,  "  you  are  rather 
out  of  spirits."  *'  Well,  I  am,  Mrs,  Hooper,"  he'll  say, 
"  though  1  don't  know  how  you  should  find  it  out" 
"Why  not  take  a  little  change?"  I  ask.  Then  in  a 
day  or  two  he'll  say  that  he  will  take  a  trip  to  Paris, 
or  Norway,  or  somewhere ;  and  I  assure  you  he  comes 
back  all  the  better  for  it.' 

*  Ah,  indeed  !     His  is  a  sensitive  nature,  no  doubt,' 
*Yes,     Still  he's  odd  in  some  things.     Once  when 

he  had  finished  a  poem  of  his  composition  late  at  night 
he  walked  up  and  down  the  room  rehearsing  it;  and 
the  floors  being  so  thin — jerry-built  houses,  you  know, 
though  I  say  it  myself — he  kept  me  awake  up  above 
him  till  I  wished  him  further.  .  ,  .  But  we  get  on 
very  well.' 

This  was  but  the  beginning  of  a  series  of  conver- 
sations about  the  rising  poet  as  the  days  went  qdu 
On  one  of  these  occasions  Mrs.  Hooper  drew  EU^s 
attention  to  what  she  had  not  noticed  before  :  minute 
scribblings  in  pencil  on  the  wall-paper  behind  the 
curtains  at  the  head  of  the  bed. 

•01  let  me  look,'  said   Mrs.  Marchmill,  unable  to 

lO 


AN   IMAGINATIVE  WOMAN 

conceal  a  rush  of  tender  curiosity  as  she  bent  her  pretty 
face  close  to  the  wall. 

'  These,'  said  Mrs.  Hooper,  with  the  manner  of  a 
woman  who  knew  things,  '  are  the  very  beginnings  and 
first  thoughts  of  his  verses.  He  has  tried  to  rub  most 
of  them  out,  but  you  can  read  them  still.  My  belief 
is  that  he  wakes  up  in  the  night,  you  know,  with  some 
rhyme  in  his  head,  and  jots  it  down  there  on  the  wall 
lest  he  should  forget  it  by  the  morning.  Some  of  these 
very  lines  you  see  here  I  have  seen  afterwards  in  print 
in  the  magazines.  Some  are  newer;  indeed,  I  have 
not  seen  that  one  before.  It  must  have  been  done 
only  a  few  days  ago.' 

'  O  yes  1  .  .  .' 

Ella  Marchmill  flushed  without  knowing  why,  and 
suddenly  wished  her  companion  would  go  away,  now 
that  the  information  was  imparted.  An  indescribable 
consciousness  of  personal  interest  rather  than  literary 
made  her  anxious  to  read  the  inscription  alone;  and 
she  accordingly  waited  till  she  could  do  so,  with  a  sense 
that  a  great  store  of  emotion  would  be  enjoyed  in  the  act 

Perhaps  because  the  sea  was  choppy  outside  the 
Island,  Ella's  husband  found  it  much  pleasanter  to  go 
sailing  and  steaming  about  without  his  wife,  who  was 
a  bad  sailor,  than  with  her.  He  did  not  disdain  to 
go  thus  alone  on  board  the  steamboats  of  the  cheap- 
trippers,  where  there  was  dancing  by  moonlight,  and 
where  the  couples  would  come  suddenly  down  with  a 
lurch  into  each  other's  arms  ;  for,  as  he  blandly  told  her, 
the  company  was  too  mixed  for  him  to  take  her  amid 
such  scenes.  Thus,  while  this  thriving  manufacturer  got 
a  great  deal  of  change  and  sea-air  out  of  his  sojourn 
here,  the  life,  external  at  least,  of  Ella  was  monotonous 
enough,  and  mainly  consisted  in  passing  a  certain 
number  of  hours  each  day  in  bathing  and  walking 
up  and  down  a  stretch  of  shore.  But  the  poetic 
impulse  having  again  waxed  strong,  she  was  possessed 

xz 


WESSEX  TALES 

by  an  inner  flame  which  left  her  hardly  conscious  of 
what  was  proceeding  around  her. 

She  had  read  till  she  knew  by  heart  Trewe's  last 
little  volume  of  verses,  and  spent  a  great  deal  of  time 
in  vainly  attempting  to  rival  some  of  them,  till,  in  her 
failure,  she  burst  into  tears.  The  personal  element  in 
the  magnetic  attraction  exercised  by  this  circumambient, 
unapproachable  master  of  hers  was  so  much  stronger 
than  the  intellectual  and  abstract  that  she  could  not 
understand  it.  To  be  sure,  she  was  surrounded  noon 
and  night  by  his  customary  environment,  which  literally 
whispered  of  him  to  her  at  every  moment;  but  he  was 
a  man  she  had  never  seen,  and  that  all  that  moved 
her  was  the  instinct  to  specialize  a  waiting  emotion  on 
the  first  fit  thing  that  came  to  hand  did  not,  of  course, 
suggest  itself  to  Ella. 

In  the  natural  way  of  passion  under  the  too  practi- 
cal conditions  which  civilization  has  devised  for  its 
fruition,  her  husband's  love  for  her  had  not  survived, 
except  in  the  form  of  fitful  friendship,  any  more  than, 
or  even  so  much  as,  her  own  for  him;  and,  being 
a  woman  of  very  living  ardours,  that  required  suste- 
nance of  some  sort,  they  were  beginning  to  feed  on  this 
chancing  material,  which  was,  indeed,  of  a  quality  far 
better  than  chance  usually  offers. 

One  day  the  children  had  been  playing  hide-and- 
seek  in  a  closet,  whence,  in  their  excitement,  they  pulled 
out  some  clothing.  Mrs.  Hooper  explained  that  it 
belonged  to  Mr.  Trewe,  and  hung  it  up  in  the  closet 
again.  Possessed  of  her  fantasy,  Ella  went  later  in 
the  afternoon,  when  nobody  was  in  that  part  of  the 
house,  opened  the  closet,  unhitched  one  of  the  articles, 
a  mackintosh,  and  put  it  on,  with  the  waterproof  cap 
belonging  to  it. 

•The  mantle  of  Elijah!'  she  said.  'Would  it 
might  inspire  me  to  rival  him,  glorious  genius  that 
he  isl' 

12 


AN   IMAGINATIVE  WOMAN 

Her  eyes  always  grew  wet  when  she  thought  like 
that,  and  she  turned  to  look  at  herself  in  the  glass. 
Bis  heart  had  beat  inside  that  coat,  and  his  brain  had 
worked  under  that  hat  at  levels  of  thought  she  would 
never  reach.  The  consciousness  of  her  weakness  beside 
him  made  her  feel  quite  sick.  Before  she  had  got  the 
things  off  her  the  door  opened,  and  her  husband  entered 
the  room, 

'  What  the  devil ' 

She  blushed,  and  removed  them. 

•  I  found  them  in  the  closet  here,*  she  said,  '  and  put 
them  on  in  a  freak.  What  have  I  else  to  do  ?  You  are 
always  away ! ' 

•  Always  away  ?     Well      .  . 

That  evening  she  had  a  further  talk  with  the  land- 
lady, who  might  herself  have  nourished  a  half-tender 
regard  for  the  poet,  so  ready  was  she  to  discourse  ardently 
about  him. 

♦You  are  interested  in  Mr.  Trewe,  I  know,  ma'am,* 
she  said ;  '  and  he  has  just  sent  to  say  that  he  is  going 
to  call  to-morrow  afternoon  to  look  up  some  books  of 
his  that  he  wants,  if  I'll  be  in,  and  he  may  select  them 
from  your  room  ? ' 

' O  yes  ! ' 

•  You  could  very  well  meet  Mr.  Trewe  then,  if  you'd 
like  to  be  in  the  way ! ' 

She  promised  with  secret  delight,  and  went  to  bed 
musing  of  him. 

Next  morning  her  husband  observed :  '  I've  been 
thinking  of  what  you  said,  Ell :  that  I  have  gone  about 
a  good  deal  and  left  you  without  much  to  amuse  you. 
Perhaps  it's  true.  To-day,  as  there's  not  much  sea,  I'll 
take  you  with  me  on  board  the  yacht.* 

For  the  first  time  in  her  experience  of  such  an  offer 
Ella  was  not  glad.  But  she  accepted  it  for  the  moment. 
The  time  for  setting  out  drew  near,  and  she  went  to  get 
ready.     She  stood  reflecting.     The  longing  to  see  the 

13 


WESSEX  TALES 

poet  she  was  now  distinctly  in  love  with  overpowered 
all  other  considerations. 

•  I  don't  want  to  go,*  she  said  to  herself.  *  I  can't 
bear  to  be  away !     And  I  won't  go.' 

She  told  her  husband  that  she  had  changed  her 
mind  about  wishing  to  sail.  He  was  indifferent,  and 
went  his  way. 

For  the  rest  of  the  day  the  house  was  quiet,  the 
children  having  gone  out  upon  the  sands.  The  blinds 
waved  in  the  sunshine  to  the  soft,  steady  stroke  of  the 
sea  beyond  the  wall;  and  the  notes  of  the  Green 
Silesian  band,  a  troop  of  foreign  gentlemen  hired  for 
the  season,  had  drawn  almost  all  the  residents  and  pro- 
menaders  away  from  the  vicinity  of  Coburg  House.  A 
knock  was  audible  at  the  door. 

Mrs.  Marchmill  did  not  hear  any  servant  go  to 
answer  it,  and  she  became  impatient.  The  books  were 
in  the  room  where  she  sat ;  but  nobody  came  up.  She 
rang  the  bell. 

♦There  is  some  person  waiting  at  the  door,'  she 
said. 

*  O  no,  ma'am  1  He's  gone  long  ago.  I  answered 
it.' 

Mrs.  Hooper  came  in  herself. 

*  So  disappointing ! '  she  said.  *  Mr.  Trewe  not 
coming  after  all  I ' 

'  But  I  heard  him  knock,  I  fancy  1 ' 

•  No ;  that  was  somebody  inquiring  for  lodgings  who 
came  to  the  wrong  house.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  Mr. 
Trewe  sent  a  note  just  before  lunch  to  say  I  needn't 
get  any  tea  for  him,  as  he  should  not  require  the  books, 
and  wouldn't  come  to  select  them.' 

Ella  was  miserable,  and  for  a  long  time  could  not 
even  re-read  his  mournful  ballad  on  '  Severed  Lives,' 
so  aching  was  her  erratic  little  heart,  and  so  tearful  her 
eyes.  When  the  children  came  in  with  wet  stockings, 
and  ran  up  to  her  to  tell  her  of  their  adventures,  she 

X4 


^  AN   IMAGINATIVE  WOMAN 

could  not  feel  that  she  cared  about  them  half  as  much 
as  usual. 


*  Mrs.  Hooper,  have  you  a  photograph  of — the  gentle- 
man who  lived  here  ? '  She  was  getting  to  be  curiously 
shy  in  mentioning  his  name. 

'Why,  yes.  It's  in  the  ornamental  frame  on  the 
mantelpiece  in  your  own  bedroom,  ma'am.' 

•  No ;  the  Royal  Duke  and  Duchess  are  in  that.* 
'Yes,   so   they  are;    but   he's    behind    them.      He 

belongs  rightly  to  that  frame,  which  I  bought  on  pur- 
pose ;  but  as  he  went  away  he  said :  "  Cover  me  up 
from  those  strangers  that  are  coming,  for  God's  sake. 
I  don't  want  them  staring  at  me,  and  I  am  sure  they 
won't  want  me  staring  at  them."  So  I  slipped  in  the 
Duke  and  Duchess  temporarily  in  front  of  him,  as  they 
had  no  frame,  and  Royalties  are  more  suitable  for  letting 
furnished  than  a  private  young  man.  If  you  take  'em 
out  you'll  see  him  under.  Lord,  ma'am,  he  wouldn't 
mind  if  he  knew  it !  He  didn't  think  the  next  tenant 
would  be  such  an  attractive  lady  as  you,  or  he  wouldn't 
have  thought  of  hiding  himself,  perhaps.' 

'  Is  he  handsome  ? '  she  asked  timidly. 

'/call  him  so.     Some,  perhaps,  wouldn't.' 

'  Should  I  ? '  she  asked,  with  eagerness. 

'I  think  you  would,  though  some  would  say  he's 
more  striking  than  handsome;  a  large-eyed  thoughtful 
fellow,  you  know,  with  a  very  electric  flash  in  his  eye 
when  he  looks  round  quickly,  such  as  you'd  expect  a 
poet  to  be  who  doesn't  get  his  living  by  it.' 

'  How  old  is  he  ?  * 

'  Several  years  older  than  yourself,  ma'am ;  about 
thirty-one  or  two,  I  think.' 

Ella  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  a  few  months  over  thirty 
herself;  but  she  did  not  look  nearly  so  much.  Though 
so  immature  in  nature,  she  was  entering  on  that  tract 

«5 


WESSEX  TALES 

of  life  in  which  emotional  women  begin  to  suspect  that 
last  love  may  be  stronger  than  first  love ;  and  she  would 
soon,  alas,  enter  on  the  still  more  melancholy  tract  when 
at  least  the  vainer  ones  of  her  sex  shrink  from  receiving 
a  male  visitor  otherwise  than  with  their  backs  to  the 
window  or  the  blinds  half  down.  She  reflected  on  Mrs. 
Hooper's  remark,  and  said  no  more  about  age. 

Just  then  a  telegram  was  brought  up.  It  came  from 
her  husband,  who  had  gone  down  the  Channel  as  far  as 
Budmouth  with  his  friends  in  the  yacht,  and  would  not 
be  able  to  get  back  till  next  day. 

After  her  light  dinner  Ella  idled  about  the  shore 
with  the  children  till  dusk,  thinking  of  the  yet  uncovered 
photograph  in  her  room,  with  a  serene  sense  of  some- 
thing ecstatic  to  come.  For,  with  the  subtle  luxurious- 
ness  of  fancy  in  which  this  young  woman  was  an  adept, 
on  learning  that  her  husband  was  to  be  absent  that 
night  she  had  refrained  from  incontinently  rushing  up- 
stairs and  opening  the  picture-frame,  preferring  to  reserve 
the  inspection  till  she  could  be  alone,  and  a  more 
romantic  tinge  be  imparted  to  the  occasion  by  silence, 
candles,  solemn  sea  and  stars  outside,  than  was  afforded 
by  the  garish  afternoon  sunlight. 

The  children  had  been  sent  to  bed,  and  Ella  soon 
followed,  though  it  was  not  yet  ten  o'clock.  To  gratify 
her  passionate  curiosity  she  now  made  her  preparations, 
first  getting  rid  of  superfluous  garments  and  putting  on 
her  dressing-gown,  then  arranging  a  chair  in  front  of 
the  table  and  reading  several  pages  of  Trewe's  tenderest 
utterances.  Then  she  fetched  the  portrait-frame  to  the 
light,  opened  the  back,  took  out  the  likeness,  and  set  it 
up  before  her. 

It  was  a  striking  countenance  to  look  upon.  The 
poet  wore  a  luxuriant  black  moustache  and  imperial, 
and  a  slouched  hat  which  shaded  the  forehead.  The 
large  dark  eyes,  described  by  the  landlady,  showed  an 
unlimited  capacity  for  misery;    they  looked  out  from 

x6 


AN   IMAGINATIVE  WOMAN 

beneath  well-shaped  brows  as  if  they  were  reading  the 
universe  in  the  microcosm  of  the  confronter's  face,  and 
were  not  altogether  overjoyed  at  what  the  spectacle 
portended. 

Ella  murmured  in  her  lowest,  richest,  tenderest  tone : 
*  And  it's  you  who've  so  cruelly  eclipsed  me  these  many 
times ! ' 

As  she  gazed  long  at  the  portrait  she  fell  into  thought, 
till  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  touched  the  card- 
board with  her  lips.  Then  she  laughed  with  a  nervous 
lightness,  and  wiped  her  eyes. 

She  thought  how  wicked  she  was,  a  woman  having 
a  husband  and  three  children,  to  let  her  mind  stray  to  a 
stranger  in  this  unconscionable  manner.  No,  he  was 
not  a  stranger !  She  knew  his  thoughts  and  feelings  as 
well  as  she  knew  her  own ;  they  were,  in  fact,  the  self- 
same thoughts  and  feelings  as  hers,  which  her  husband 
distinctly  lacked ;  perhaps  luckily  for  himself,  considering 
that  he  had  to  provide  for  family  expenses. 

*  He's  nearer  my  real  self,  he's  more  intimate  with  the 
real  me  than  Will  is,  after  all,  even  though  I've  never 
seen  him,'  she  said. 

She  laid  his  book  and  picture  on  the  table  at  the 
bedside,  and  when  she  was  reclining  on  the  pillow  she 
re-read  those  of  Robert  Trewe's  verses  which  she  had 
marked  from  time  to  time  as  most  touching  and  true. 
Putting  these  aside,  she  set  up  the  photograph  on  its 
edge  upon  the  coverlet,  and  contemplated  it  as  she  lay. 
Then  she  scanned  again  by  the  light  of  the  candle  the 
half-obUterated  pencillings  on  the  wall-paper  beside  her 
head.  There  they  were — phrases,  couplets,  bouts-rimes, 
beginnings  and  middles  of  lines,  ideas  in  the  rough,  like 
Shelley's  scraps,  and  the  least  of  them  so  intense,  so 
sweet,  so  palpitating,  that  it  seemed  as  if  his  very  breath, 
warm  and  loving,  fanned  her  cheeks  from  those  walls, 
walls  that  had  surrounded  his  head  times  and  times  as 
they  surrounded  her  own  now.     He  must  often  have 

X7  B 


WESSEX  TALES 

put  up  his  hand  so — with  the  pencil  in  it.  Yes,  the 
writing  was  sideways,  as  it  would  be  if  executed  by  one 
who  extended  his  arm  thus. 

These  inscribed  shapes  of  the  poet's  world, 

'  Forms  more  real  than  living  man. 
Nurslings  of  immortality,' 

were,  no  doubt,  the  thoughts  and  spirit-strivings  which 
had  come  to  him  in  the  dead  of  night,  when  he  could 
let  himself  go  and  have  no  fear  of  the  frost  of  criticism. 
No  doubt  they  had  often  been  written  up  hastily  by  the 
light  of  the  moon,  the  rays  of  the  lamp,  in  the  blue-grey 
dawn,  in  full  daylight  perhaps  never.  And  now  her  hair 
was  dragging  where  his  arm  had  lain  when  he  secured 
the  fugitive  fancies ;  she  was  sleeping  on  a  poet's  lips, 
immersed  in  the  very  essence  of  him,  permeated  by  his 
spirit  as  by  an  ether. 

While  she  was  dreaming  the  minutes  away  thus,  a 
footstep  came  upon  the  stairs,  and  in  a  moment  she 
heard  her  husband's  heavy  step  on  the  landing  im- 
mediately without. 

'  Ell,  where  are  you  ? ' 

What  possessed  her  she  could  not  have  described, 
but,  with  an  instinctive  objection  to  let  her  husband 
know  what  she  had  been  doing,  she  slipped  the  photo- 
graph under  the  pillow  just  as  he  flung  open  the  door, 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  dined  not  badly. 

*  O,  I  beg  pardon,'  said  William  Marchmill,  '  Have 
you  a  headache  ?     I  am  afraid  I  have  disturbed  you.' 

*  No,  I've  not  got  a  headache,*  said  she.  •  How  is 
it  you've  come  ? ' 

'Well,  we  found  we  could  get  back  in  very  good 
time  after  all,  and  I  didn't  want  to  make  another  day 
of  it,  because  of  going  somewhere  else  to-morrow.' 

*  Shall  I  come  down  again  ? ' 

'O  no.  I'm  as  tired  as  a  dog.  I've  had  a  good 
feed,  and  I  shall  turn  in  straight  off.     I  want  to  get 

z8 


AN   IMAGINATIVE  WOMAN 

out  at  six  o'clock  to-morrow  if  I  can.  ...  I  shan't 
disturb  you  by  my  getting  up;  it  will  be  long  before 
you  are  awake.'     And  he  came  forward  into  the  room. 

While  her  eyes  followed  his  movements,  Ella  softly 
pushed  the  photograph  further  out  of  sight. 

'  Sure  you're  not  ill  ? '  he  asked,  bending  over  her. 

'  No,  only  wicked  ! ' 

'  Never  mind  that.'  And  he  stooped  and  kissed 
her. 

Next  morning  Marchmill  was  called  at  six  o'clock; 
and  in  waking  and  yawning  she  heard  him  muttering  to 
himself:  'What  the  deuce  is  this  that's  been  crackling 
under  me  so  ?  '  Imagining  her  asleep  he  searched  round 
him  and  withdrew  something.  Through  her  half-opened 
eyes  she  perceived  it  to  be  Mr.  Trewe. 

*  Well,  I'm  damned  ! '  her  husband  exclaimed. 
'  What,  dear  ? '  said  she. 

*  O,  you  are  awake  ?     Ha !  ha ! ' 
'  What  do  you  mean  ?  ' 

'  Some  bloke's  photograph — a  friend  of  our  landlady's, 
I  suppose.  I  wonder  how  it  came  here;  whisked  off 
the  table  by  accident  perhaps  when  they  were  making 
the  bed.' 

*  I  was  looking  at  it  yesterday,  and  it  must  have 
dropped  in  then.' 

*  O,  he's  a  friend  of  yours  ?  Bless  his  picturesque 
heart ! ' 

Ella's  loyalty  to  the  object  of  her  admiration  could 
not  endure  to  hear  him  ridiculed.  '  He's  a  clever 
man ! '  she  said,  with  a  tremor  in  her  gentle  voice 
which  she  herself  felt  to  be  absurdly  uncalled  for. 
'  He  is  a  rising  poet — the  gentleman  who  occupied  two 
of  these  rooms  before  we  came,  though  I've  never 
seen  him.' 

*  How  do  you  know,  if  you've  never  seen  him  ? ' 
'Mrs.   Hooper  told  me  when  she  showed  me  the 

photograph.' 

19 


*      WESSEX  TALES 

'  O  j  well,  I  must  up  and  be  off.  I  shall  be  home 
rather  early.  Sorry  I  can't  take  you  to-day,  dear. 
Mind  the  children  don't  go  getting  drowned.' 

That  day  Mrs.  Marchmill  inquired  if  Mr.  Trewe  were 
likely  to  call  at  any  other  time. 

*  Yes,'  said  Mrs.  Hooper.  '  He's  coming  this  day 
week  to  stay  with  a  friend  near  here  till  you  leave. 
He'll  be  sure  to  call.' 

Marchmill  did  return  quite  early  in  the  afternoon ; 
and,  opening  some  letters  which  had  arrived  in  his 
absence,  declared  suddenly  that  he  and  his  family  would 
have  to  leave  a  week  earlier  than  they  had  expected  to 
do — in  short,  in  three  days. 

'Surely  we  can  stay  a  week  longer?'  she  pleaded. 
•I  like  it  here.' 

'  I  don't.     It  is  getting  rather  slow.' 

*  Then  you  might  leave  me  and  the  children  ! ' 

*  How  perverse  you  are,  Ell !  What's  the  use  ? 
And  have  to  come  to  fetch  you  !  No :  we'll  all  return 
together ;  and  we'll  make  out  our  time  in  North  Wales 
or  Brighton  a  little  later  on.  Besides,  you've  three 
days  longer  yet.' 

It  seemed  to  be  her  doom  not  to  meet  the  man 
for  whose  rival  talent  she  had  a  despairing  admira- 
tion, and  to  whose  person  she  was  now  absolutely 
attached.  Yet  she  determined  to  make  a  last  effort; 
and  having  gathered  from  her  landlady  that  Trewe 
was  living  in  a  lonely  spot  not  far  from  the  fashion- 
able town  on  the  Island  opposite,  she  crossed  over  in 
the  packet  from  the  neighbouring  pier  the  following 
afternoon. 

What  a  useless  journey  it  was !  Ella  knew  but 
vaguely  where  the  house  stood,  and  when  she  fancied 
she  had  found  it,  and  ventured  to  inquire  of  a  pedestrian 
if  he  lived  there,  the  answer  returned  by  the  man  was 
that  he  did  not  know.  And  if  he  did  live  there,  how 
could  she  call  upon  him  ?     Some  women  might  have 

20 


AN   IMAGINATIVE  WOMAN 

the  assurance  to  do  it,  but  she  had  not.  How  crazy 
he  would  think  her.  She  might  have  asked  him  to 
call  upon  her,  perhaps;  but  she  had  not  the  courage 
for  that,  either.  She  Hngered  mournfully  about  the 
picturesque  seaside  eminence  till  it  was  time  to  return 
to  the  town  and  enter  the  steamer  for  recrossing, 
reaching  home  for  dinner  without  having  been  greatly 
missed. 

At  the  last  moment,  unexpectedly  enough,  her 
husband  said  that  he  should  have  no  objection  to 
letting  her  and  the  children  stay  on  till  the  end  of  the 
week,  since  she  wished  to  do  so,  if  she  felt  herself  able 
to  get  home  without  him.  She  concealed  the  pleasure 
this  extension  of  time  gave  her;  and  Marchmill  went 
off  the  next  morning  alone. 

But  the  week  passed,  and  Trewe  did  not  call. 

On  Saturday  morning  the  remaining  members  of  the 
Marchmill  family  departed  from  the  place  which  had 
been  productive  of  so  much  fervour  in  her.  The  dreary, 
dreary  train ;  the  sun  shining  in  moted  beams  upon  the 
hot  cushions;  the  dusty  permanent  way;  the  mean 
rows  of  wire — these  things  were  her  accompaniment : 
while  out  of  the  window  the  deep  blue  sea-levels  dis- 
appeared from  her  gaze,  and  v/ith  them  her  poet's 
home.  Heavy-hearted,  she  tried  to  read,  and  wept 
instead. 

Mr.  Marchmill  was  in  a  thriving  way  of  business, 
and  he  and  his  family  lived  in  a  large  new  house,  which 
stood  in  rather  extensive  grounds  a  few  miles  outside 
the  city  wherein  he  carried  on  his  trade.  Ella's  life 
was  lonely  here,  as  the  suburban  life  is  apt  to  be, 
particularly  at  certain  seasons ;  and  she  had  ample  time 
to  indulge  her  taste  for  lyric  and  elegiac  composition. 
She  had  hardly  got  back  when  she  encountered  a  piece 
by  Robert  Trewe  in  the  new  number  of  her  favourite 
magazine,  which  must  have  been  written  almost  im- 
mediately before  her  visit  to  Solentsea,  for  it  contained 

21 


WESSEX  TALES 

the  very  couplet  she  had  seen  pencilled  on  the  wall- 
paper by  the  bed,  and  Mrs.  Hooper  had  declared  to 
be  recent.  Ella  could  resist  no  longer,  but  seizing  a 
pen  impulsively,  wrote  to  him  as  a  brother-poet,  using 
the  name  of  John  Ivy,  congratulating  him  in  her 
letter  on  his  triumphant  executions  in  metre  and 
rhythm  of  thoughts  that  moved  his  soul,  as  compared 
with  her  own  brow-beaten  efforts  in  the  same  pathetic 
trade. 

To  this  address  there  came  a  response  in  a  few  days, 
little  as  she  had  dared  to  hope  for  it— a  civil  and  brief 
note,  in  which  the  young  poet  stated  that,  though  he 
was  not  well  acquainted  with  Mr.  Ivy's  verse,  he  re- 
called the  name  as  being  one  he  had  seen  attached 
to  some  very  promising  pieces ;  that  he  was  glad  to 
gain  Mr.  Ivy's  acquaintance  by  letter,  and  should  cer- 
tainly look  with  much  interest  for  his  productions  in 
the  future. 

There  must  have  been  something  juvenile  or  timid  in 
her  own  epistle,  as  one  ostensibly  coming  from  a  man, 
she  declared  to  herself;  for  Trewe  quite  adopted  the 
tone  of  an  elder  and  superior  in  this  reply.  But  what 
did  it  matter?  He  had  replied;  he  had  written  to 
her  with  his  own  hand  from  that  very  room  she 
knew  so  well,  for  he  was  now  back  again  in  his 
quarters. 

The  correspondence  thus  begun  was  continued  for 
two  months  or  more,  Ella  Marchmill  sending  him  from 
time  to  time  some  that  she  considered  to  be  the  best  of 
her  pieces,  which  he  very  kindly  accepted,  though  he 
did  not  say  he  sedulously  read  them,  nor  did  he  send 
her  any  of  his  own  in  return.  Ella  would  have  been 
more  hurt  at  this  than  she  was  if  she  had  not  known 
that  Trewe  laboured  under  the  impression  that  she  was 
one  of  his  own  sex. 

Yet  the  situation  was  unsatisfactory.  A  flattering 
little  voice  told   her  that,  were  he  only  to  see  her, 

aa 


AN   IMAGINATIVE  WOMAN 

matters  would  be  otherwise.  No  doubt  she  would  have 
helped  on  this  by  making  a  frank  confession  of  woman- 
hood, to  begin  with,  if  something  had  not  happened,  to 
her  delight,  to  render  it  unnecessary.  A  friend  of  her 
husband's,  the  editor  of  the  most  important  newspaper 
in  the  city  and  county,  who  was  dining  with  them  one 
day,  observed  during  their  conversation  about  the  poet 
that  his  (the  editor's)  brother  the  landscape-painter  was 
a  friend  of  Mr.  Trewe's,  and  that  the  two  men  were  at 
that  very  moment  in  Wales  together. 

Ella  was  slightly  acquainted  with  the  editor's  brother. 
The  next  morning  down  she  sat  and  wrote,  inviting  him 
to  stay  at  her  house  for  a  short  time  on  his  way  back, 
and  requesting  him  to  bring  with  him,  if  practicable,  his 
companion  Mr.  Trewe,  whose  acquaintance  she  was 
anxious  to  make.  The  answer  arrived  after  some  few 
days.  Her  correspondent  and  his  friend  Trewe  would 
have  much  satisfaction  in  accepting  her  invitation  on 
their  way  southward,  which  would  be  on  such  and  such 
a  day  in  the  following  week. 

Ella  was  blithe  and  buoyant.  Her  scheme  had 
succeeded ;  her  beloved  though  as  yet  unseen  one  was 
coming.  "  Behold,  he  standeth  behind  our  wall ;  he 
looked  forth  at  the  windows,  showing  himself  through 
the  lattice,"  she  thought  ecstatically.  "  And,  lo,  the 
winter  is  past,  the  rain  is  over  and  gone,  the  flowers 
appear  on  the  earth,  the  time  of  the  singing  of  birds 
is  come,  and  the  voice  of  the  turtle  is  heard  in  our 
land." 

But  it  was  necessary  to  consider  the  details  of  lodging 
and  feeding  him.  This  she  did  most  solici<;ously,  and 
awaited  the  pregnant  day  and  hour. 

It  was  about  five  in  the  afternoon  when  she  heard  a 
ring  at  the  door  and  the  editor's  brother's  voice  in  the 
hall.  Poetess  as  she  was,  or  as  she  thought  herself,  she 
had  not  been  too  sublime  that  day  to  dress  with  infinite 
trouble  in  a  fashionable  robe  of  rich  material,  having  a 

23 


WESSEX  TALES 

faint  resemblance  to  the  chiton  of  the  Greeks,  a  style 
just  then  in  vogue  among  ladies  of  an  artistic  and 
romantic  turn,  which  had  been  obtained  by  Ella  of  her 
Bond  Street  dressmaker  when  she  was  last  in  London, 
Her  visitor  entered  the  drawing-room.  She  looked 
towards  his  rear ;  nobody  else  came  through  the  door. 
Where,  in  the  name  of  the  God  of  Love,  was  Robert 
Trewe  ? 

'O,  I'm  sorry,'  said  the  painter,  after  their  intro- 
ductory words  had  been  spoken.  *  Trewe  is  a  curious 
fellow,  you  know,  Mrs.  Marchmill.  He  said  he'd  come ; 
then  he  said  he  couldn't.  He's  rather  dusty.  We've 
been  doing  a  few  miles  with  knapsacks,  you  know;  and 
he  wanted  to  get  on  home.' 

'  He — he's  not  coming  ? ' 

'  He's  not ;  and  he  asked  me  to  make  his  apologies.' 

•When  did  you  p-p-part  from  him?'  she  asked, 
her  nether  lip  starting  off  quivering  so  much  that  it 
was  like  a  tt'emolo-sto^  opened  in  her  speech.  She 
longed  to  run  away  from  this  dreadful  bore  and  cry 
her  eyes  out. 

*  Just  now,  in  the  turnpike  road  yonder  there.' 

♦  What !  he  has  actually  gone  past  my  gates  ? ' 

'  Yes.  When  we  got  to  them — handsome  gates  they 
are,  too,  the  finest  bit  of  modern  wrought-iron  work  I 
have  seen — when  we  came  to  them  we  stopped,  talking 
there  a  little  while,  and  then  he  wished  me  good-bye  and 
went  on.  The  truth  is,  he's  a  little  bit  depressed  just 
now,  and  doesn't  want  to  see  anybody.  He's  a  very 
good  fellow,  and  a  warm  friend,  but  a  little  uncertain 
and  gloomy  sometimes ;  he  thinks  too  much  of  things. 
His  poetry  is  rather  too  erotic  and  passionate,  you  know, 
for  some  tastes ;  and  he  has  just  come  in  for  a  terrible 
slating  from  the Revieiv  that  was  published  yester- 
day; he  saw  a  copy  of  it  at  the  station  by  accident 
Perhaps  you've  read  it  ? ' 

'No.' 

24 


AN   IMAGINATIVE  WOMAN 

'So  much  the  better.  O,  it  is  not  worth  thinking 
of;  just  one  of  those  articles  written  to  order,  to  please 
the  narrow-minded  set  of  subscribers  upon  whom  the 
circulation  depends.  But  he's  upset  by  it.  He  says  it 
is  the  misrepresentation  that  hurts  him  so ;  that,  though 
he  can  stand  a  fair  attack,  he  can't  stand  lies  that  he's 
powerless  to  refute  and  stop  from  spreading.  That's 
just  Trewe's  weak  point.  He  lives  so  much  by  himself 
that  these  things  affect  him  much  more  than  they  would 
if  he  were  in  the  bustle  of  fashionable  or  commercial  life. 
So  he  wouldn't  come  here,  making  the  excuse  that  it  all 
looked  so  new  and  monied — if  you'll  pardon * 

'  But — he  must  have  known — there  was  sympathy 
here !  Has  he  never  said  anything  about  getting  letters 
from  this  address  ? ' 

'  Yes,  yes,  he  has,  from  John  Ivy — perhaps  a  relative 
of  yours,  he  thought,  visiting  here  at  the  time  ? ' 

'  Did  he—  like  Ivy,  did  he  say  ?  ' 

'  Well,  I  don't  know  that  he  took  any  great  interest 
in  Ivy. 

'  Or  in  his  poems  ? ' 

'  Or  in  his  poems — so  far  as  I  know,  that  is.' 

Robert  Trewe  took  no  interest  in  her  house,  in  her 
poems,  or  in  their  writer.  As  soon  as  she  could  get 
away  she  went  into  the  nursery  and  tried  to  let  off  her 
emotion  by  unnecessarily  kissing  the  children,  till  she 
had  a  sudden  sense  of  disgust  at  being  reminded  how 
plain-looking  they  were,  like  their  father. 

The  obtuse  and  single  -  minded  landscape  -  painter 
never  once  perceived  from  her  conversation  that  it  was 
only  Trewe  she  wanted,  and  not  himself.  He  made 
the  best  of  his  visit,  seeming  to  enjoy  the  society  of 
Ella's  husband,  who  also  took  a  great  fancy  to  him, 
and  showed  him  everywhere  about  the  neighbourhood, 
neither  of  them  noticing  Ella's  mood. 

The  painter  had  been  gone  only  a  day  or  two  when, 
while  sitting  upstairs  alone  one  morning,  she  glanced  over 

25 


WESSEX  TALES 

the  London  paper  just  arrived,  and  read  the  following 
paragraph  : — 

*  SUICIDE  OF  A  POET 

*  Mr.  Robert  Trewe,  who  has  been  favourably  known  for  some 
years  as  one  of  our  rising  lyrists,  committed  suicide  at  his  lodgings 
at  Solentsea  on  Saturday  evening  last  by  shooting  himself  in  the 
right  temple  with  a  revolver.  Readers  hardly  need  to  be  reminded 
that  Mr.  Trewe  has  recently  attracted  the  attention  of  a  much  wider 
public  than  had  hitherto  known  him,  by  his  new  volume  of  verse, 
mostly  of  an  impassioned  kind,  entitled  "  Lyrics  to  a  Woman 
Unknown,"  which  has  been  already  favourably  noticed  in  these 
pages  for  the  extraordinary  gamut  of  feeling  it  traverses,  and  which 
has  been  made  the  subject  of  a  severe,  if  not  ferocious,  criticism  in 

the Review.     It  is  supposed,  though  not  certainly  known,  that 

the  article  may  have  partially  conduced  to  the  sad  act,  as  a  copy  of 
the  review  in  question  was  found  on  his  writing-table  ;  and  he  has 
been  observed  to  be  in  a  somewhat  depressed  state  of  mind  since 
the  critique  appeared.' 

Then  came  the  report  of  the  inquest,  at  which  the  fol- 
lowing letter  was  read,  it  having  been  addressed  to  a 
friend  at  a  distance : — 

'  Dear , — Before  these  lines  reach  your  hands  I  shall  be 

delivered  from  the  inconveniences  of  seeing,  hearing,  and  knowing 
more  of  the  things  around  me.  I  will  not  trouble  you  by  giving  my 
reasons  for  the  step  I  have  taken,  though  I  can  assure  you  they  were 
sound  and  logical.  Perhaps  had  I  been  blessed  with  a  mother,  or 
a  sister,  or  a  female  friend  of  another  sort  tenderly  devoted  to  me, 
I  might  have  thought  it  worth  while  to  continue  my  present  exist- 
ence. I  have  long  dreamt  of  such  an  unattainable  creature,  as  you 
know ;  and  she,  this  undiscoverable,  elusive  one,  inspired  my  last 
volume  ;  the  imaginary  woman  alone,  for,  in  spite  of  what  has  been 
said  in  some  quarters,  there  is  no  real  woman  behind  the  title.  She 
has  continued  to  the  last  unrevealed,  unmet,  unwon.  I  think  it 
desirable  to  mention  this  in  order  that  no  blame  may  attach  to  any 
real  woman  as  having  been  the  cause  of  my  decease  by  cruel  or 
cavalier  treatment  of  me.  Tell  my  landlady  that  I  am  sorry  to  have 
caused  her  this  unpleasantness  ;  but  my  occupancy  of  the  rooms 
will  soon  be  forgotten.  There  are  ample  funds  in  my  name  at  the 
bank  to  pay  all  expenses.  R.  Trewk.' 

26 


AN   IMAGINATIVE  WOMAN 

Ella  sat  for  a  while  as  if  stunned,  then  rushed  into 
the  adjoining  chamber  and  flung  herself  upon  her  face 
on  the  bed. 

Her  grief  and  distraction  shook  her  to  pieces ;  and 
she  lay  in  this  frenzy  of  sorrow  for  more  than  an  hour. 
Broken  words  came  every  now  and  then  from  her  quiver- 
ing lips :  '  O,  if  he  had  only  known  of  me — known  of 
me — me !  ...  O,  if  I  had  only  once  met  him — only 
once ;  and  put  my  hand  upon  his  hot  forehead — kissed 
him — let  him  know  how  I  loved  him — that  I  would 
have  suffered  shame  and  scorn,  would  have  lived  and 
died,  for  him !  Perhaps  it  would  have  saved  his  dear 
life !  .  .  .  But  no — it  was  not  allowed !  God  is  a 
jealous  God;  and  that  happiness  was  not  for  him 
and  me ! ' 

Al'  possibilities  were  over ;  the  meeting  was  stultified. 
Yet  it  was  almost  visible  to  her  in  her  fantasy  even  now, 
though  it  could  never  be  substantiated — 

•  The  hour  which  might  have  been,  yet  might  not  be, 
Which  man's  and  woman's  heart  conceived  and  bore. 
Yet  whereof  life  was  barren.* 


She  wrote  to  the  landlady  at  Solentsea  in  the  third 
person,  in  as  subdued  a  style  as  she  could  command, 
enclosing  a  postal  order  for  a  sovereign,  and  informing 
Mrs.  Hooper  that  Mrs.  Marchmill  had  seen  in  the 
papers  the  sad  account  of  the  poet's  death,  and  having 
been,  as  Mrs.  Hooper  was  aware,  much  interested  in 
Mr.  Trewe  during  her  stay  at  Coburg  House,  she  would 
be  obliged  if  Mrs.  Hooper  could  obtain  a  small  portion 
of  his  hair  before  his  coffin  was  closed  down,  and  send 
it  her  as  a  memorial  of  him,  as  also  the  photograph  that 
was  in  the  frame. 

By  the  return-post  a  letter  arrived  containing  what 
had  been  requested.     Ella  wept  over  the  portrait  and 

27 


WESSEX  TALES     . 

secured  it  in  her  private  drawer ;  the  lock  of  hair  she 
tied  with  white  ribbon  and  put  in  her  bosom,  whence 
she  drew  it  and  kissed  it  every  now  and  then  in  some 
unobserved  nook. 

'  What's  the  matter  ?  *  said  her  husband,  looking  up 
from  his  newspaper  on  one  of  these  occasions.  '  Crying 
over  something  ?     A  lock  of  hair  ?     Wliose  is  it  ? ' 

*  He's  dead ! '  she  murmured. 
'  Who  ? ' 

'  I  don't  want  to  tell  you.  Will,  just  now,  unless  you 
insist  1 '  she  said,  a  sob  hanging  heavy  in  her  voice. 
'  O,  all  right.' 

*  Do  you  mind  my  refusing  ?  I  will  tell  you  some 
day.' 

*  It  doesn't  matter  in  the  least,  of  course.' 

He  walked  away  whistHng  a  few  bars  of  no  tune  in 
particular;  and  when  he  had  got  down  to  his  factory 
in  the  city  the  subject  came  into  Marchmill's  head 
again. 

He,  too,  was  aware  that  a  suicide  had  taken  place 
recently  at  the  house  they  had  occupied  at  Solentsea. 
Having  seen  the  volume  of  poems  in  his  wife's  hand 
of  late,  and  heard  fragments  of  the  landlady's  conver- 
sation  about  Trewe  when  they  were  her  tenants,  he  all 
at  once  said  to  himself,  'Why  of  course  it's  he !  .  .  . 
How  the  devil  did  she  get  to  know  him?  What  sly 
animals  women  are !  * 

Then  he  placidly  dismissed  the  matter,  and  went  on 
with  his  daily  affairs.  By  this  time  Ella  at  home  had 
come  to  a  determination.  Mrs  Hooper,  in  sending  the 
hair  and  photograph,  had  informed  her  of  the  day  of 
the  funeral ;  and  as  the  morning  and  noon  wore  on  an 
overpowering  wish  to  know  where  they  were  laying  him 
took  possession  of  the  sympathetic  woman.  Caring  very 
little  now  what  her  husband  or  any  one  else  might  think 
of  her  eccentricities,  she  wrote  Marchmill  a  brief  note, 
stating  that  she  was  called  away  for  the  afternoon  and 

38 


AN   IMAGINATIVE  WOMAN 

evening,  but  -would  return  on  the  following  morning. 
This  she  left  on  his  desk,  and  having  given  the  same 
information  to  the  servants,  went  out  of  the  house  on 
foot. 

When  Mr.  Marchmill  reached  home  early  in  the 
afternoon  the  servants  looked  anxious.  The  nurse 
took  him  privately  aside,  and  hinted  that  her  mistress's 
sadness  during  the  past  few  days  had  been  such  that 
she  feared  she  had  gone  out  to  drown  herself.  March- 
mill  reflected.  Upon  the  whole  he  thought  that  she 
had  not  done  that.  Without  saying  whither  he  was 
bound  he  also  started  off,  telling  them  not  to  sit  up 
for  him.  He  drove  to  the  railway-station,  and  took  a 
ticket  for  Solentsea. 

It  was  dark  when  he  reached  the  place,  though  he 
had  come  by  a  fast  train,  and  he  knew  that  if  his  wife 
had  preceded  him  thither  it  could  only  have  been  by  a 
slower  train,  arriving  not  a  great  while  before  his  own. 
The  season  at  Solentsea  was  now  past :  the  parade  was 
gloomy,  and  the  flys  were  few  and  cheap.  He  asked 
the  way  to  the  Cemetery,  and  soon  reached  it.  The 
gate  was  locked,  but  the  keeper  let  him  in,  declaring, 
however,  that  there  was  nobody  within  the  precincts. 
Although  it  was  not  late,  the  autumnal  darkness  had 
now  become  intense;  and  he  found  some  difificulty  in 
keeping  to  the  serpentine  path  which  led  to  the  quarter 
where,  as  the  man  had  told  him,  the  one  or  two  inter- 
ments for  the  day  had  taken  place.  He  stepped  upon 
the  grass,  and,  stumbling  over  some  pegs,  stooped  now 
and  then  to  discern  if  possible  a  figure  against  the  sky. 
He  could  see  none;  but  lighting  on  a  spot  where  the 
soil  was  trodden,  beheld  a  crouching  object  beside  a 
newly  made  grave.     She  heard  him,  and  sprang  up. 

'  Ell,  how  silly  this  is  ! '  he  said  indignantly.  '  Run- 
ning away  from  home — I  never  heard  such  a  thing  I 
Of  course  I  am  not  jealous  of  this  unfortunate  man; 
but  it  is  too  ridiculous  that  you,  a  married  woman  with 

»9 


WESSEX  TALES 

three  children  and  a  fourth  coining,  should  go  losing 
your  head  like  this  over  a  dead  lover!  .  .  .  Do  you 
know  you  were  locked  in  ?     You  might  not  have  been 
able  to  get  out  all  night.' 
She  did  not  answer. 

*  I  hope  it  didn't  go  far  between  you  and  him,  for 
your  own  sake.* 

*  Don't  insult  me,  Will.' 

'  Mind,  I  won't  have  any  more  of  this  sort  of  thing ; 
do  you  hear  ? ' 

'  Very  well,*  she  said. 

He  drew  her  arm  within  his  own,  and  conducted  her 
out  of  the  Cemetery.  It  was  impossible  to  get  back 
that  night ;  and  not  wishing  to  be  recognized  in  their 
present  sorry  condition,  he  took  her  to  a  miserable  little 
coffee-house  close  to  the  station,  whence  they  departed 
early  in  the  morning,  travelling  almost  without  speaking, 
under  the  sense  that  it  was  one  of  those  dreary  situations 
occurring  in  married  life  which  words  could  not  mend, 
and  reaching  their  own  door  at  noon. 

The  months  passed,  and  neither  of  the  twain  ever 
ventured  to  start  a  conversation  upon  this  episode. 
Ella  seemed  to  be  only  too  frequently  in  a  sad  and 
listless  mood,  which  might  almost  have  been  called 
pining.  The  time  was  approaching  when  she  would 
have  to  undergo  the  stress  of  childbirth  for  a  fourth 
time,  and  that  apparently  did  not  tend  to  raise  her 
spirits. 

'  I  don't  think  I  shall  get  over  it  this  time ! '  she  said 
one  day. 

*  Pooh  !  what  childish  foreboding  1  Why  shouldn't 
it  be  as  well  now  as  ever  ? ' 

She  shook  her  head.  *  I  feel  almost  sure  I  am  going 
to  die ;  and  I  should  be  glad,  if  it  were  not  for  Nelly, 
and  Frank,  and  Tiny.' 

'  And  me  1 ' 

•You'll  soon  find  somebody  to  fill  my  pUce,'  she 

30 


AN   IMAGINATIVE  WOMAN 

murmured,  with  a  sad  smile.    '  And  you'll  have  a  perfect 
right  to ;  I  assure  you  of  that.' 

'  Ell,  you  are  not  thinking  still  about  that — poetical 
friend  of  yours  ? ' 

She  neither  admitted  nor  denied  the  charge.  '  I  am 
not  going  to  get  over  my  illness  this  time,'  she  reiterated. 
•  Something  tells  me  I  shan't.' 

This  view  of  things  was  rather  a  bad  beginning,  as 
it  usually  is ;  and,  in  fact,  six  weeks  later,  in  the  month 
of  May,  she  was  lying  in  her  room,  pulseless  and  blood- 
less, with  hardly  strength  enough  left  to  follow  up  one 
feeble  breath  with  another,  the  infant  for  whose  un- 
necessary life  she  was  slowly  parting  with  her  own  being 
fat  and  well.  Just  before  her  death  she  spoke  to 
Marchmill  softly : — 

*Will,  I  want  to  confess  to  you  the  entire  circum- 
stances of  that — about  you  know  what — that  time  we 
visited  Solentsea.  I  can't  tell  what  possessed  me — how 
I  could  forget  you  so,  my  husband !  But  I  had  got 
into  a  morbid  state :  I  thought  you  had  been  unkind ; 
that  you  had  neglected  me ;  that  you  weren't  up  to  my 
intellectual  level,  while  he  was,  and  far  above  it.  I 
wanted  a  fuller  appreciator,  perhaps,  rather  than  another 
lover ' 

She  could  get  no  further  then  for  very  exhaustion ; 
and  she  went  off  in  sudden  collapse  a  few  hours  later, 
without  having  said  anything  more  to  her  husband  on 
the  subject  of  her  love  for  the  poet.  William  Marchmill, 
in  truth,  like  most  husbands  of  several  years'  standing, 
was  little  disturbed  by  retrospective  jealousies,  and  had 
not  shown  the  least  anxiety  to  press  her  for  confessions 
concerning  a  man  dead  and  gone  beyond  any  power  of 
inconveniencing  him  more. 

But  when  she  had  been  buried  a  couple  of  years  it 
chanced  one  day  that,  in  turning  over  some  forgotten 
papers  that  he  wished  to  destroy  before  his  second  wife 
entered  the  house,  he  lighted  on  a  lock  of  hair  in  an 

3^ 


WESSEX  TALES 

envelope,  with  the  photograph  of  the  deceased  poet,  a 
date  being  written  on  the  back  in  his  late  wife's  hand. 
It  was  that  of  the  time  they  spent  at  Solentsea. 

Marchmill  looked  long  and  musingly  at  the  hair  and 
portrait,  for  something  struck  him.  Fetching  the  little 
boy  who  had  been  the  death  of  his  mother,  now  a  noisy 
toddler,  he  took  him  on  his  knee,  held  the  lock  of  hair 
against  the  child's  head,  and  set  up  the  photograph  on 
the  table  behind,  so  that  he  could  closely  compare  the 
features  each  countenance  presented.  There  were  un- 
doubtedly strong  traces  of  resemblance ;  the  dreamy  and 
peculiar  expression  of  the  poet's  face  sat,  as  the  trans- 
mitted idea,  upon  the  child's,  and  the  hair  was  of  the 
same  hue. 

'  I'm  damned  if  I  didn't  think  so  ! '  murmured  March- 
mill.  *  Then  she  did  play  me  false  with  that  fellow 
at  the  lodgings !  Let  me  see :  the  dates — the  second 
week  in  August.  .  .  .  the  third  week  in  May.  .  .  . 
Yes  .  .  .  yes.  .  .  .  Get  away,  you  poor  little  brat  I 
You  are  nothing  to  me  1 ' 

189* 


TBE   THREE  STRANGERS 


THE   THREE  STRANGERS 

A^IONG  the  few  features  of  agricultural  England 
which  retain  an  appearance  but  little  modified  by  the 
lapse  of  centuries,  may  be  reckoned  the  high,  grassy 
and  furzy  downs,  coombs,  or  ewe-leases,  as  they  are  in- 
differently called,  that  fill  a  large  area  of  certain  counties 
in  the  south  and  south-west.  If  any  mark  of  human 
occupation  is  met  with  hereon,  it  usually  takes  the  form 
of  the  solitary  cottage  of  some  shepherd. 

Fifty  years  ago  such  a  lonely  cottage  stood  on  such 
a  down,  and  may  possibly  be  standing  there  now.  In 
spite  of  its  loneliness,  however,  the  spot,  by  actual 
measurement,  was  not  more  than  five  miles  from  a 
county-town.  Yet  that  affected  it  little.  Five  miles  of 
irregular  upland,  during  the  long  inimical  seasons,  with 
their  sleets,  snows,  rains,  and  mists,  afford  withdrawing 
space  enough  to  isolate  a  Timon  or  a  Nebuchadnezzar ; 
much  less,  in  fair  weather,  to  please  that  less  repellent 
tribe,  the  poets,  philosophers,  artists,  and  others  who 
'conceive  and  meditate  of  pleasant  things.' 

Some  old  earthen  camp  or  barrow,  some  clump  of 
trees,  at  least  some  starved  fragment  of  ancient  hedge 
is  usually  taken  advantage  of  in  the  erection  of  these 
forlorn  dwellings.  But,  in  the  present  case,  such  a 
kind  of  shelter  had  been  disregarded.  Higher  Crow- 
stairs,  as  the  house  was  called,  stood  quite  detached  and 

35 


WES  SEX  TALES 

undefended.  The  only  reason  for  its  precise  situation 
seemed  to  be  the  crossing  of  two  footpaths  at  right 
angles  hard  by,  which  may  have  crossed  there  and  thus 
for  a  good  five  hundred  years.  Hence  the  house  was 
exposed  to  the  elements  on  all  sides.  But,  though  the 
wind  up  here  blew  unmistakably  when  it  did  blow, 
and  the  rain  hit  hard  whenever  it  fell,  the  various 
weathers  of  the  winter  season  were  not  quite  so  for- 
midable on  the  coomb  as  they  were  imagined  to  be  by 
dwellers  on  low  ground.  The  raw  rimes  were  not  so 
pernicious  as  in  the  hollows,  and  the  frosts  were  scarcely 
so  severe.  When  the  shepherd  and  his  family  who 
tenanted  the  house  were  pitied  for  their  sufferings  from 
the  exposure,  they  said  that  upon  the  whole  they  were 
less  inconvenienced  by  '  wuzzes  and  flames '  (hoarses 
and  phlegms)  than  when  they  had  lived  by  the  stream 
of  a  snug  neighbouring  valley. 

The  night  of  March  28,  182-,  was  precisely  one  of 
the  nights  that  were  wont  to  call  forth  these  expressions 
of  commiseration.  The  level  rainstorm  smote  walls, 
slopes,  and  hedges  like  the  clothyard  shafts  of  Senlac 
and  Crecy.  Such  sheep  and  outdoor  animals  as  had 
no  shelter  stood  with  their  buttocks  to  the  winds ;  while 
the  tails  of  little  birds  trying  to  roost  on  some  scraggy 
thorn  were  blown  inside-out  like  umbrellas.  The 
gable-end  of  the  cottage  was  stained  with  wet,  and 
the  eavesdroppings  flapped  against  the  wall.  Yet 
never  was  commiseration  for  the  shepherd  more  mis- 
placed. For  that  cheerful  rustic  was  entertaining  a 
large  party  in  glorification  of  the  christening  of  his 
second  girl. 

The  guests  had  arrived  before  the  rain  began  to  fall, 
and  they  were  all  now  assembled  in  the  chief  or  living 
room  of  the  dwelling.  A  glance  into  the  apartment  at 
eight  o'clock  on  this  eventful  evening  would  have  re- 
sulted in  the  opinion  that  it  was  as  cosy  and  comfortable 
a  nook  as  could  be  wished  for  in  boisterous  weather, 

36 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS 

The  calling  of  its  inhabitant  was  proclaimed  by  a 
number  of  highly-polished  sheep-crooks  without  stems 
that  were  hung  ornamentally  over  the  fireplace,  the  curl 
of  each  shining  crook  varying  from  the  antiquated  type 
engraved  in  the  patriarchal  pictures  of  old  family  Bibles 
to  the  most  approved  fashion  of  the  last  local  sheep-fair. 
The  room  was  lighted  by  half-a-dozen  candles,  having 
wicks  only  a  trifle  smaller  than  the  grease  which 
enveloped  them,  in  candlesticks  that  were  never  used 
but  at  high-days,  holy-days,  and  family  feasts.  The 
lights  were  scattered  about  the  room,  two  of  them  stand- 
ing on  the  chimney-piece.  This  position  of  candles 
was  in  itself  significant.  Candles  on  the  chimney-piece 
always  meant  a  party. 

On  the  hearth,  in  front  of  a  back-brand  to  give 
substance,  blazed  a  fire  of  thorns,  that  crackled  *  like 
the  laughter  of  the  fool.* 

Nineteen  persons  were  gathered  here.  Of  these, 
five  women,  wearing  gowns  of  various  bright  hues,  sat 
in  chairs  along  the  wall;  girls  shy  and  not  shy  filled 
the  window-bench ;  four  men,  including  Charley  Jake 
the  hedge-carpenter,  Elijah  New  the  parish-clerk,  and 
John  Pitcher,  a  neighbouring  dairyman,  the  shepherd's 
father-in-law,  lolled  in  the  settle;  a  young  man  and 
maid,  who  were  blushing  over  tentative  pourparlers  on 
a  life-companionship,  sat  beneath  the  corner-cupboard; 
and  an  elderly  engaged  man  of  fifty  or  upward  moved 
restlessly  about  from  spots  where  his  betrothed  was 
not  to  the  spot  where  she  was.  Enjoyment  was  pretty 
general,  and  so  much  the  more  prevailed  in  being 
unhampered  by  conventional  restrictions.  Absolute 
confidence  in  each  other's  good  opinion  begat  perfect 
ease,  while  the  finishing  stroke  of  manner,  amounting  to 
a  truly  princely  serenity,  was  lent  to  the  majority  by  the 
absence  of  any  expression  or  trait  denoting  that  they 
wished  to  get  on  in  the  world,  enlarge  their  minds,  or 
do  any  eclipsing   thing  whatever — which  nowadays  so 

37 


WESSEX  TALES 

generally  nips  the  bloom  and  bonhomie  of  all  except  the 
two  extremes  of  the  social  scale. 

Shepherd  Fennel  had  married  well,  his  wife  being 
a  dairyman's  daughter  from  a  vale  at  a  distance,  who 
brought  fifty  guineas  in  her  pocket — and  kept  them 
there,  till  they  should  be  required  for  ministering  to 
the  needs  of  a  coming  family.  This  frugal  woman 
had  been  somewhat  exercised  as  to  the  character  that 
should  be  given  to  the  gathering.  A  sit-still  party  had 
its  advantages ;  but  an  undisturbed  position  of  ease  in 
chairs  and  settles  was  apt  to  lead  on  the  men  to  such 
an  unconscionable  deal  of  toping  that  they  would 
sometimes  fairly  drink  the  house  dry,  A  dancing- 
party  was  the  alternative ;  but  this,  while  avoiding  the 
foregoing  objection  on  the  score  of  good  drink,  had  a 
counterbalancing  disadvantage  in  the  fnatter  of  good 
victuals,  the  ravenous  appetites  engendered  by  the  exer- 
cise causing  immense  havoc  in  the  buttery.  Shepherdess 
Fennel  fell  back  upovi  the  intermediate  plan  of  mingling 
short  dances  with  short  periods  of  talk  and  singing,  so 
AS  to  hinder  any  ungovernable  rage  in  either.  But  this 
scheme  was  entirely  confined  to  her  own  gentle  mind : 
the  shepherd  himself  was  in  the  mood  to  exhibit  the 
most  reckless  phases  of  hospitality. 

The  fiddler  was  a  boy  of  those  parts,  about  twelve 
years  of  age,  who  had  a  wonderful  dexterity  in  jigs  and 
reels,  though  his  fingers  were  so  small  and  short  as  to 
necessitate  a  constant  shifting  for  the  high  notes,  from 
which  he  scrambled  back  to  the  first  position  with 
sounds  not  of  unmixed  purity  of  tone.  At  seven  the 
shrill  tweedle-dee  of  this  youngster  had  begun,  accom- 
panied by  a  booming  ground-bass  from  Elijah  New, 
the  parish-clerk,  who  had  thoughtfully  brought  with  him 
his  favourite  musical  instrument,  the  serpent.  Dancing 
was  instantaneous,  Mrs.  Fennel  privately  enjoining  the 
players  on  no  account  to  let  the  dance  exceed  the  length 
of  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

38 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS 

But  Elijah  and  the  boy,  in  the  excitement  of  their 
position,  quite  forgot  the  injunction.  Moreover, -Oliver 
Giles,  a  man  of  seventeen,  one  of  the  dancers,  who  was 
enamoured  of  his  partner,  a  fair  girl  of  thirty-three  rolling 
years,  had  recklessly  handed  a  new  crown-piece  to  the 
musicians,  as  a  bribe  to  keep  going  as  long  as  they  had 
muscle  and  wind.  Mrs.  Fennel,  seeing  the  steam  begin 
to  generate  on  the  countenances  of  her  guests,  crossed 
over  and  touched  the  fiddler's  elbow  and  put  her  hand 
on  the  serpent's  mouth.  But  they  took  no  notice,  and 
fearing  she  might  lose  her  character  of  genial  hostess  if 
she  were  to  interfere  too  markedly,  she  retired  and  sat 
down  helpless.  And  so  the  dance  whizzed  on  with 
cumulative  fury,  the  performers  moving  in  their  planet- 
like courses,  direct  and  retrograde,  from  apogee  to  peri- 
gee, till  the  hand  of  the  well-kicked  clock  at  the  bottom 
of  the  room  had  travelled  over  the  circumference  of 
an  hour. 

While  these  cheerful  events  were  in  course  of  enact- 
ment within  Fennel's  pastoral  dwelling,  an  incident 
having  considerable  bearing  on  the  party  had  occurred 
in  the  gloomy  night  without.  Mrs.  Fennel's  concern 
about  the  growing  fierceness  of  the  dance  corresponded 
in  point  of  time  with  the  ascent  of  a  human  figure  to 
the  solitary  hill  of  Higher  Crowstairs  from  the  direction 
of  the  distant  town.  This  personage  strode  on  through 
the  rain  without  a  pause,  following  the  little-worn  path 
which,  further  on  in  its  course,  skirted  the  shepherd's 
cottage. 

It  was  nearly  the  time  of  full  moon,  and  on  this 
account,  though  the  sky  was  lined  with  a  uniform  sheet 
of  dripping  cloud,  ordinary  objects  out  of  doors  were 
readily  visible.  The  sad  wan  light  revealed  the  lonely 
pedestrian  to  be  a  man  of  supple  frame;  his  gait  sug- 
gested that  he  had  somewhat  passed  the  period  of 
perfect  and  instinctive  agility,  though  not  so  far  as 
to  be  otherwise  than  rapid  of  motion  when  occasion 
9  39 


WESSEX  TALES 

required.  At  a  rough  guess,  he  might  have  been  about 
forty  years  of  age.  He  appeared  tall,  but  a  recruiting 
sergeant,  or  other  person  accustomed  to  the  judging  of 
men's  heights  by  the  eye,  would  have  discerned  that 
this  was  chiefly  owing  to  his  gauntness,  and  that  he  was 
not  more  than  five-feet-eight  or  nine. 

Notwithstanding  the  regularity  of  his  tread,  there  was 
caution  in  it,  as  in  that  of  one  who  mentally  feels  his 
way ;  and  despite  the  fact  that  it  was  not  a  black  coat 
nor  a  dark  garment  of  any  sort  that  he  wore,  there  was 
something  about  him  which  suggested  that  he  naturally 
belonged  to  the  black-coated  tribes  of  men.  His  clothes 
were  of  fustian,  and  his  boots  hobnailed,  yet  in  his  pro- 
gress he  showed  not  the  mud- accustomed  bearing  of 
hobnailed  and  fustianed  peasantry. 

By  the  time  that  he  had  arrived  abreast  of  the 
shepherd's  premises  the  rain  came  down,  or  rather 
came  along,  with  yet  more  determined  violence.  The 
outskirts  of  the  little  settlement  partially  broke  the  force 
of  wind  and  rain,  and  this  induced  him  to  stand  still. 
The  most  salient  of  the  shepherd's  domestic  erections 
was  an  empty  sty  at  the  forward  corner  of  his  hedgeless 
garden,  for  in  these  latitudes  the  principle  of  masking 
the  homelier  features  of  your  establishment  by  a  con- 
ventional frontage  was  unknown.  The  traveller's  eye 
was  attracted  to  this  small  building  by  the  pallid  shine 
of  the  wet  slates  that  covered  it.  He  turned  aside, 
and,  finding  it  empty,  stood  under  the  pent-roof  for 
shelter. 

While  he  stood,  the  boom  of  the  serpent  within  the 
adjacent  house,  and  the  lesser  strains  of  the  fiddler, 
reached  the  spot  as  an  accompaniment  to  the  surging 
hiss  of  the  flying  rain  on  the  sod,  its  louder  beating  on 
the  cabbacje-leaves  of  the  garden,  on  the  eight  or  ten 
beehives  just  discernible  by  the  path,  and  its  dripping 
from  the  eaves  into  a  row  of  buckets  and  pans  that 
had  been  placed  under  the  walls  of  the  cottage.     For 

40 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS 

at  Higher  Crowstairs,  as  at  all  such  elevated  domiciles, 
the  grand  difficulty  of  housekeeping  was  an  insuffi- 
ciency of  water;  and  a  casual  rainfall  was  utilized  by 
turning  out,  as  catchers,  every  utensil  that  the  house 
contained.  Some  queer  stories  might  be  told  of  the 
contrivances  for  economy  in  suds  and  dish-waters  that 
are  absolutely  necessitated  in  upland  habitations  during 
the  droughts  of  summer.  But  at  this  season  there  were 
no  such  exigencies ;  a  mere  acceptance  of  what  the  skies 
bestowed  was  sufficient  for  an  abundant  store. 

At  last  the  notes  of  the  serpent  ceased  and  the 
house  was  silent.  This  cessation  of  activity  aroused 
the  solitary  pedestrian  from  the  reverie  into  which  he 
had  lapsed,  and,  emerging  from  the  shed,  with  an 
apparently  new  intention,  he  walked  up  the  path  to 
the  house-door.  Arrived  here,  his  first  act  was  to 
kneel  down  on  a  large  stone  beside  the  row  of  vessels, 
and  to  drink  a  copious  draught  from  one  of  them. 
Having  quenched  his  thirst  he  rose  and  lifted  his  hand 
to  knock,  but  paused  with  his  eye  upon  the  panel. 
Since  the  dark  surface  of  the  wood  revealed  absolutely 
nothing,  it  was  evident  that  he  must  be  mentally  look- 
ing through  the  door,  as  if  he  wished  to  measure 
thereby  all  the  possibilities  that  a  house  of  this  sort 
might  include,  and  how  they  might  bear  upon  the 
question  of  his  entry. 

In  his  indecision  he  turned  and  surveyed  the  scene 
around.  Not  a  soul  was  anywhere  visible.  The 
garden-path  stretched  downward  from  his  feet,  gleam- 
ing like  the  track  of  a  snail ;  the  roof  of  the  little  well 
(mostly  dry),  the  well-cover,  the  top  rail  of  the  garden- 
gate,  were  varnished  with  the  same  dull  liquid  glaze; 
while,  far  away  in  the  vale,  a  faint  whiteness  of  more 
than  usual  extent  showed  that  the  rivers  were  high  in 
the  meads.  Beyond  all  this  winked  a  few  bleared 
lamplights  through  the  beating  drops — lights  that  de- 
noted the  situation  of  the  county-town  from  which  ho 

41 


WESSEX  TALES 

had  appeared  to  come.  The  absence  of  all  notes  of 
life  in  that  direction  seemed  to  clinch  his  intentions, 
and  he  knocked  at  the  door. 

Within,  a  desultory  chat  had  taken  the  place  of 
movement  and  musical  sound.  The  hedge-carpenter 
was  suggesting  a  song  to  the  company,  which  nobody 
just  then  was  inclined  to  undertake,  so  that  the  knock 
afforded  a  not  unwelcome  diversion. 

'  Walk  in  ! '  said  the  shepherd  promptly. 

The  latch  clicked  upward,  and  out  of  the  night  our 
pedestrian  appeared  upon  the  door-mat.  The  shepherd 
arose,  snuffed  two  of  the  nearest  candles,  and  turned  to 
look  at  him. 

Their  hght  disclosed  that  the  stranger  was  dark  in 
complexion  and  not  unprepossessing  as  to  feature.  His 
hat,  which  for  a  moment  he  did  not  remove,  hung 
low  over  his  eyes,  without  concealing  that  they  were 
large,  open,  and  determined,  moving  with  a  flash  rather 
than  a  glance  round  the  room.  He  seemed  pleased 
with  his  survey,  and,  baring  his  shaggy  head,  said,  in 
a  rich  deep  voice,  '  The  rain  is  so  heavy,  friends,  that 
I  ask  leave  to  come  in  and  rest  awhile.' 

•To  be  sure,  stranger,*  said  the  shepherd.  *And 
faith,  you've  been  lucky  in  choosing  your  time,  for  we 
are  having  a  bit  of  a  fling  for  a  glad  cause — though,  to 
be  sure,  a  man  could  hardly  wish  that  glad  cause  to 
happen  more  than  once  a  year.' 

*  Nor  less,'  spoke  up  a  woman.  '  For  'tis  best  to 
get  your  family  over  and  done  with,  as  soon  as  you 
can,  so  as  to  be  all  the  earlier  out  of  the  fag  o't.' 

'  And  what  may  be  this  glad  cause  ? '  asked  the 
stranger. 

*  A  birth  and  christening,'  said  the  shepherd. 

The  stranger  hoped  his  host  might  not  be  made  un- 
happy either  by  too  many  or  too  few  of  such  episodes, 
and  being  invited  by  a  gesture  to  a  pull  at  the  mug, 
he  readily  acquiesced.     His  manner,  ^hich,  before  enter- 

42 


*— .- 


THE  THREE   STRANGERS 


ing,  had  been  so  dubious,  was  now  altogether  that  of  a 
careless  and  candid  man. 

*  Late  to  be  traipsing  athwart  this  coomb — hey  ? ' 
said  the  engaged  man  of  fifty. 

'Late  it  is,  master,  as  you  say. — I'll  take  a  seat  in 
the  chimney-corner,  if  you  have  nothing  to  urge  against 
it,  ma'am ;  for  I  am  a  Uttle  moist  on  the  side  that  was 
next  the  rain.' 

Mrs.  Shepherd  Fennel  assented,  and  made  room 
for  the  self-invited  comer,  who,  having  got  completely 
inside  the  chimney-corner,  stretched  out  his  legs  and 
his  arms  with  the  expansiveness  of  a  person  quite  at 
home. 

'  Yes,  I  am  rather  cracked  in  the  vamp,'  he  said  freely, 
seeing  that  the  eyes  of  the  shepherd's  wife  fell  upon  his 
boots,  'and  I  am  not  well  fitted  either.  I  have  had 
some  rough  times  lately,  and  have  been  forced  to  pick 
up  what  I  can  get  in  the  way  of  wearing,  but  I  must 
find  a  suit  better  fit  for  working-days  when  I  reach 
home.' 

*  One  of  hereabouts  ?  '  she  inquired. 

« Not  quite  that — further  up  the  country.' 

'  I  thought  so.  And  so  be  I ;  and  by  your  tongue 
you  come  from  my  neighbourhood.' 

'  But  you  would  hardly  have  heard  of  me,'  he  said 
quickly.  '  My  time  would  be  long  before  yours,  ma'am, 
you  see.* 

This  testimony  to  the  youthfulness  of  his  hostess 
had  the  effect  of  stopping  her  cross-examination. 

'  There  is  only  one  thing  more  wanted  to  make  me 
happy,'  continued  the  new-comer.  '  And  that  is  a  little 
baccy,  which  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  am  out  of.' 

'  I'll  fill  your  pipe,'  said  the  shepherd. 

'  I  must  ask  you  to  lend  me  a  pipe  likewise.* 

•  A  smoker,  and  no  pipe  about  'ee  ? ' 

•  I  have  dropped  it  somewhere  on  the  road.' 

The  shepherd  filled  and  handed  him  a  new  clay  pipe, 

43 


WESSEX  TALES 

saying,  as  he  did  so,  '  Hand  me  your  baccy  box — I'll 
fill  that  too,  now  I  am  about  it.' 

The  man  went  through  the  movement  of  searching 
his  pockets. 

'  Lost  that  too  ? '  said  his  entertainer,  with  some 
surprise. 

*  I  am  afraid  so,*  said  the  man  with  some  confusion. 
'  Give  it  to  me  in  a  screw  of  paper.'  Lighting  his  pipe 
at  the  candle  with  a  suction  that  drew  the  whole  flame 
into  the  bowl,  he  resettled  himself  in  the  corner  and 
bent  his  looks  upon  the  faint  steam  from  his  damp  legs, 
as  if  he  wished  to  say  no  more. 

Meanwhile  the  general  body  of  guests  had  been  taking 
little  notice  of  this  visitor  by  reason  of  an  absorbing 
discussion  in  which  they  were  engaged  with  the  band 
about  a  tune  for  the  next  dance.  The  matter  being 
settled,  they  were  about  to  stand  up  when  an  interruption 
came  in  the  shape  of  another  knock  at  the  door. 

At  sound  of  the  same  the  man  in  the .  chimney- 
corner  took  up  the  poker  and  began  stirring  the  brands 
as  if  doing  it  thoroughly  were  the  one  aim  of  his  exist- 
ence ;  and  a  second  time  the  shepherd  said,  '  Walk  in !  * 
In  a  moment  another  man  stood  upon  the  straw-woven 
door-mat.     He  too  was  a  stranger. 

This  individual  was  one  of  a  type  radically  different 
from  the  first.  There  was  more  of  the  commonplace 
in  his  manner,  and  a  certain  jovial  cosmopolitanism 
sat  upon  his  features.  He  was  several  years  older 
than  the  first  arrival,  his  hair  being  slightly  frosted, 
his  eyebrows  bristly,  and  his  whiskers  cut  back  from 
his  cheeks.  His  face  was  rather  full  and  flabby,  and 
yet  it  was  not  altogether  a  face  without  power.  A  few 
grog-blossoms  marked  the  neighbourhood  of  his  nose. 
He  flung  back  his  long  drab  greatcoat,  revealing  that 
beneath  it  he  wore  a  suit  of  cinder-gray  shade  through- 
out, large  heavy  seals,  of  some  metal  or  other  that 
would  take  a  poUsh,  dangling  from  his  fob  as  his  only 

44 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS 

personal  ornament.  Shaking  the  water-drops  from  his 
low-crowned  glazed  hat,  he  said,  '  I  must  ask  for  a  few 
minutes'  shelter,  comrades,  or  I  shall  be  wetted  to  my 
skin  before  I  get  to  Casterbridge.' 

*  Make  yourself  at  home,  master,'  said  the  shepherd, 
perhaps  a  trifle  less  heartily  than  on  the  first  occasion. 
Not  that  Fennel  had  the  least  tinge  of  niggardliness 
in  his  composition ;  but  the  room  was  far  from  large, 
spare  chairs  were  not  numerous,  and  damp  companions 
were  not  altogether  desirable  at  close  quarters  for  the 
women  and  girls  in  their  bright-coloured  gowns. 

However,  the  second  comer,  after  taking  off  his 
greatcoat,  and  hanging  his  hat  on  a  nail  in  one  of  the 
ceiling-beams  as  if  he  had  been  specially  invited  to  put 
it  there,  advanced  and  sat  down  at  the  table.  This  had 
been  pushed  so  closely  into  the  chimney-corner,  to  give 
all  available  room  to  the  dancers,  that  its  inner  edge 
grazed  the  elbow  of  the  man  who  had  ensconced  him- 
self by  the  fire;  and  thus  the  two  strangers  were 
brought  into  close  companionship.  They  nodded  to 
each  other  by  way  of  breaking  tlie  ice  of  unacquaintance, 
and  the  first  stranger  handed  his  neighbour  the  family 
mug — a  huge  vessel  of  brown  ware,  having  its  upper 
edge  worn  away  like  a  threshold  by  the  rub  of  whole 
generations  of  thirsty  lips  that  had  gone  the  way  of  all 
flesh,  and  bearing  the  following  inscription  burnt  upon 
its  rotund  side  in  yellow  letters : — 

THERE   IS   NO   FUN 
UNtIlL  i   CUM. 

The  other  man,  nothing  loth,  raised  the  mug  to  his 
Jips,  and  drank  on,  and  on,  and  on — till  a  curious 
blueness  overspread  the  countenance  cf  the  shepherd's 
wife,  who  had  regarded  with  no  little  surprise  the  first 
stranger's  free  offer  to  the  second  of  what  did  not 
belong  to  him  to  dispense. 

45 


WESSEX  TALES 

*  I  knew  it !  *  said  the  toper  to  the  shepherd  with 
much  satisfaction.  '  When  I  walked  up  your  garden 
before  coming  in,  and  saw  the  hives  all  of  a  row,  I 
said  to  myself,  "  Where  there's  bees  there's  honey,  and 
where  there's  honey  there's  mead."  But  mead  of  sach 
a  truly  comfortable  sort  as  this  I  really  didn't  expect  to 
meet  in  my  older  days.'  He  took  yet  another  pull  at 
the  mug,  till  it  assumed  an  ominous  elevation. 

'  Glad  you  enjoy  it ! '  said  the  shepherd  warmly. 

*  It  is  goodish  mead,'  assented  Mrs.  Fennel,  with  an 
absence  of  enthusiasm  which  seemed  to  say  that  it  was 
possible  to  buy  praise  for  one's  cellar  at  too  heavy  a 
price.  'It  is  trouble  enough  to  make — and  really  I 
hardly  think  we  shall  make  any  more.  For  honey  sells 
well,  and  we  ourselves  can  make  shift  with  a  drop  o' 
small  mead  and  metheglin  for  common  use  from  the 
comb-washings." 

'  O,  but  you'll  never  have  the  heart ! '  reproachfully 
cried  the  stranger  in  cinder-gray,  after  taking  up  the 
mug  a  third  time  and  setting  it  down  empty.  '  I  love 
mead,  when  'tis  old  like  this,  as  I  love  to  go  to  church 
o'  Sundays,  or  to  relieve  the  needy  any  day  of  the  week.' 

*  Ha,  ha,  ha ! '  said  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner, 
who,  in  spite  of  the  taciturnity  induced  by  the  pipe  of 
tobacco,  could  not  or  would  not  refrain  from  this  slight 
testimony  to  his  comrade's  humour. 

Now  the  old  mead  of  those  days,  brewed  of  the 
purest  first-year  or  maiden  honey,  four  pounds  to  the 
gallon — with  its  due  complement  of  white  of  eggs, 
cinnamon,  ginger,  cloves,  mace,  rosemary,  yeast,  and 
processes  of  working,  bottling,  and  cellaring — tasted  re- 
markably strong ;  but  it  did  not  taste  so  strong  as  it 
actually  was.  Hence,  presently,  the  stranger  in  cinder- 
gray  at  the  table,  moved  by  its  creeping  influence,  un- 
buttoned his  waistcoat,  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair, 
spread  his  legs,  and  made  his  presence  felt  in  various 
ways. 

4a 


THE  THREE   STRANGERS 

*Well,  well,  as  I  say,*  he  resumed,  'I  am  going  to 
Casterbridge,  and  to  Casterbridge  I  must  go.  I  should 
have  been  almost  there  by  this  time ;  but  the  rain  drove 
me  into  your  dwelling,  and  I'm  not  sorry  for  it.' 

*  You  don't  live  in  Casterbridge  ? '  said  the  shepherd. 

*  Not  as  yet ;  though  I  shortly  mean  to  move  there.' 

*  Going  to  set  up  in  trade,  perhaps  ?  * 

'  No,  no,'  said  the  shepherd's  wife.  '  It  is  easy  to 
see  that  the  gentleman  is  rich,  and  don't  want  to  work 
at  anything.' 

The  cinder-gray  stranger  paused,  as  if  to  consider 
whether  he  would  accept  that  definition  of  himself.  He 
presently  rejected  it  by  answering,  •  Rich  is  not  quite 
the  word  for  me,  dame.  I  do  work,  and  I  must  work. 
And  even  if  I  only  get  to  Casterbridge  by  midnight  I 
must  begin  work  there  at  eight  to-morrow  morning. 
Yes,  het  or  wet,  blow  or  snow,  famine  or  sword,  my 
day's  work  to-morrow  must  be  done.' 

*  Poor  man !  Then,  in  spite  o'  seeming,  you  be 
worse  off  than  we  ?  '  replied  the  shepherd's  wife. 

"Tis  the  nature  of  my  trade,  men  and  maidens. 
'Tis  the  nature  of  my  trade  more  than  my  poverty.  .  .  . 
But  really  and  truly  I  must  up  and  off,  or  I  shan't  get 
a  lodging  in  the  town.'  However,  the  speaker  did  not 
move,  and  directly  added,  'There's  time  for  one  more 
draught  of  friendship  before  I  go ;  and  I'd  perform  it 
at  once  if  the  mug  were  not  dry.' 

'  Here's  a  mug  o'  small,'  said  Mrs.  Fennel.  *  Small, 
we  call  it,  though  to  be  sure  'tis  only  the  first  wash  o' 
the  combs.' 

'  No,'  said  the  stranger  disdainfully.  *  I  won't  spoil 
your  first  kindness  by  partaking  o'  your  second.* 

*  Certainly  not,'  broke  in  Fennel.  *  We  don't  in- 
crease and  multiply  every  day,  and  I'll  fill  the  mug 
again.*  He  went  away  to  the  dark  place  under  the 
stairs  where  the  barrel  stood.  The  shepherdess  followed 
him. 

47 


WESSEX  TALES 

*  Why  should  you  do  this  ? '  she  said  reproachfully, 
as  soon  as  they  were  alone.  *  He's  emptied  it  once, 
though  it  held  enough  for  ten  people;  and  now  he's 
not  contented  wi'  the  small,  but  must  needs  call  for 
more  o'  the  strong  1  And  a  stranger  unbeknown  to 
any  of  us.  For  my  part,  I  don't  like  the  look  o'  the 
man  at  all.* 

'  But  he's  in  the  house,  my  honey ;  and  'tis  a  wet 
night,  and  a  christening.  Daze  it,  what's  a  cup  of 
mead  more  or  less  ?  There'll  be  plenty  more  next  bee- 
burning.' 

'  Very  well — this  time,  then,'  she  answered,  looking 
wistfully  at  the  barrel.  '  But  what  is  the  man's  calling, 
and  where  is  he  one  of,  that  he  should  come  in  and 
join  us  like  this  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  know.     I'll  ask  him  again.* 

The  catastrophe  of  having  the  mug  drained  dry  at 
one  pull  by  the  stranger  in  cinder-gray  was  effectually 
guarded  against  this  time  by  Mrs.  Fennel.  She  poured 
out  his  allowance  in  a  small  cup,  keeping  the  large  one 
at  a  discreet  distance  from  him.  When  he  had  tossed 
off  his  portion  the  shepherd  renewed  his  inquiry  about 
the  stranger's  occupation. 

The  latter  did  not  immediately  reply,  and  the  man 
in  the  chimney-corner,  with  sudden  demonstrativeness, 
said,  *  Anybody  may  know  my  trade — I'm  a  wheel- 
wright.* 

*A  very  good  trade  for  these  parts,'  said  the 
shepherd. 

'  And  anybody  may  know  mine — if  they've  the  sense 
to  find  it  out,'  said  the  stranger  in  cinder-gray. 

'You  may  generally  tell  what  a  man  is  by  his 
claws,'  observed  the  hedge-carpenter,  looking  at  his 
own  hands.  '  My  fingers  be  as  full  of  thorns  as  an 
old  pin-cushion  is  of  pins.' 

The  hands  of  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner  in- 
stinctively sought  the  shade,  and  he  gazed  into  the  fire 

48 


!_;  THE  THREE  ^STRANGERS 

as  he  resumed  his  pipe.  The  man  at  the  table  took 
up  the  hedge-carpenter's  remark,  and  added  smartly, 
'  True ;  but  the  oddity  of  my  trade  is  that,  instead  of 
setting  a  mark  upon  me,  it  sets  a  mark  upon  my 
customers.' 

No  observation  being  offered  by  anybody  in  eluci- 
dation of  this  enigma,  the  shepherd's  wife  once  more 
called  for  a  song.  The  same  obstacles  presented 
themselves  as  at  the  former  time — one  had  no  voice, 
another  had  forgotten  the  first  verse.  The  stranger 
at  the  table,  whose  soul  had  now  risen  to  a  good 
working  temperature,  relieved  the  difficulty  by  exclaim- 
ing that,  to  start  the  company,  he  would  sing  himself. 
Thrusting  one  thumb  into  the  arm-hole  of  his  waistcoat, 
he  waved  the  other  hand  in  the  air,  and,  with  an  ex- 
temporizing gaze  at  the  shining  sheep-crooks  above  the 
mantelpiece,  began : — 

*  O  my  trade  it  is  the  rarest  one, 

Simple  shepherds  all — 
My  trade  is  a  sight  to  see  ; 
For  my  customers  I  tie,  and  take  them  up  on  high. 
And  waft  'em  to  a  far  countree  1 ' 

The  room  was  silent  when  he  had  finished  the  verse — 
with  one  exception,  that  of  the  man  in  the  chimney- 
corner,  who,  at  the  singer's  word,  '  Chorus  1 '  joined  him 
in  a  deep  bass  voice  of  musical  relish — 

'  And  waft  *em  to  a  far  countree  ! ' 

Oliver  Giles,  John  Pitcher  the  dairyman,  the  parish- 
clerk,  the  engaged  man  of  fifty,  the  row  of  young 
women  against  the  wall,  seemed  lost  in  thought  not  of 
the  gayest  kind.  The  shepherd  looked  meditatively  on 
the  ground,  the  shepherdess  gazed  keenly  at  the  singer, 
and  with  some  suspicion ;  she  was  doubting  whether 
this  stranger  were  merely  singing  an  old  song  from 
recollection,  or  was  composing  one  there  and  then  for 

49  D 


WESSEX  TALES 

the  occasion.  All  were  as  perplexed  at  the  obscure 
revelation  as  the  guests  at  Belshazzar's  Feast,  except  the 
man  in  the  chimney-corner,  who  quietly  said,  '  Second 
verse,  stranger,'  and  smoked  on. 

The  singer  thoroughly  moistened  himself  from  his 
lips  inwards,  and  went  on  with  the  next  stanza  as  re- 
quested : — 

•  My  tools  are  but  common  ones. 

Simple  shepherds  all— 
My  tools  are  no  sight  to  see  : 
A  little  hempen  string,  and  a  post  whereon  to  swing, 
Are  implements  enough  for  me  1 ' 

Shepherd  Fennel  glanced  round.  There  was  no  longer 
any  doubt  that  the  stranger  was  answering  his  question 
rhythmically.  The  guests  one  and  all  started  back  with 
suppressed  exclamations.  The  young  woman  engaged 
to  the  man  of  fifty  fainted  half-way,  and  would  have  pro- 
ceeded, but  finding  him  wanting  in  alacrity  for  catching 
her  she  sat  down  trembling. 

'  O,   he's  the  ! '  whispered  the  people  in  the 

background,  mentioning  the  name  of  an  ominous  public 
officer.  '  He's  come  to  do  it !  'Tis  to  be  at  Caster- 
bridge  jail  to-morrow — the  man  for  sheep-stealing — 
the  poor  clock-maker  we  heard  of,  who  used  to  live 
away  at  Shottsford  and  had  no  work  to  do — Timothy 
Summers,  whose  family  were  a-starving,  and  so  he  went 
out  of  Shottsford  by  the  high-road,  and  took  a  sheep 
in  open  daylight,  defying  the  farmer  and  the  farmer's 
wife  and  the  farmer's  lad,  and  every  man  jack  among 
'em.  He'  (and  they  nodded  towards  the  stranger  of 
the  deadly  trade)  '  is  come  from  up  the  country  to  do 
it  because  there's  not  enough  to  do  in  his  own  county- 
town,  and  he's  got  the  place  here  now  our  own  county 
man's  dead;  he's  going  to  live  in  the  same  cottage 
under  the  prison  wall.' 

The  stranger  in  cinder-gray  took  no  notice  of  this 

50 


C-^ 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS 


whispered  string  of  observations,  but  again  wetted  his 
lips.  Seeing  that  his  friend  in  the  chimney-corner  was 
the  only  one  who  reciprocated  his  joviality  in  any  way, 
he  held  out  his  cup  towards  that  appreciative  comrade, 
who  also  held  out  his  own.  They  clinked  together,  the 
eyes  of  the  rest  of  the  room  hanging  upon  the  singer's 
actions.  He  parted  his  lips  for  the  third  verse ;  but  at 
that  moment  another  knock  was  audible  upon  the  door. 
This  time  the  knock  was  faint  and  hesitating. 

The  company  seemed  scared;  the  shepherd  looked 
with  consternation  towards  the  entrance,  and  it  was 
with  some  effort  that  he  resisted  his  alarmed  wife's 
deprecatory  glance,  and  uttered  for  the  third  time  the 
welcoming  words,  *  Walk  in  ! ' 

The  door  was  gently  opened,  and  another  man  stood 
upon  the  mat.  He,  like  those  who  had  preceded  him, 
was  a  stranger.  This  time  it  was  a  short,  small  per- 
sonage, of  fail-  complexion,  and  dressed  in  a  decent  suit 
of  dark  clothes. 

'  Can  you  tell  me  the  way  to ? '  he  began  :  when, 

gazing  round  the  room  to  observe  the  nature  of  the 
company  amongst  whom  he  had  fallen,  his  eyes 
lighted  on  the  stranger  in  cinder-gray.  It  was  just  at 
the  instant  when  the  latter,  who  had  thrown  his  mind 
into  his  song  with  such  a  will  that  he  scarcely  heeded 
the  interruption,  silenced  all  whispers  and  inquiries  by 
bursting  into  his  third  verse : — 

•  To-morrow  is  my  working  day, 

Simple  shepherds  all — 
To-morrow  is  a  working  day  for  me  : 
For  the  farmer's  sheep  is  slain,  and  the  lad  who  did  it  ta'en, 
A  nd  on  his  soul  may  God  ha'  merc-y  I ' 

The  stranger  in  the  chimney-corner,  waving  cups  with 
the  singer  so  heartily  that  his  mead  splashed  over  on  the 
hearth,  repeated  in  his  bass  voice  as  before : — 

'And  on  his  soul  may  God  ha'  merc-y  I  * 
51 


WEBSEX  TALES 

All  this  time  the  third  stranger  had  beer  standing 
in  the  doorway.  Finding  now  that  he  did  not  come 
forward  or  go  on  speaking,  the  guests  particularly  re- 
garded loim.  They  noticed  to  their  surprise  that  he 
stood  before  them  the  picture  of  abject  terror — his  knees 
trembling,  his  hand  shaking  so  violently  that  the  door- 
latch  by  which  he  supported  himself  rattled  audibly :  his 
white  lips  were  parted,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  merry 
officer  of  justice  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  A  moment 
more  and  he  had  turned,  closed  the  door,  and  fled. 

'  What  a  man  can  it  be  ?  '  said  the  shepherd. 

The  rest,  between  the  awfulness  of  their  late  dis- 
covery and  the  odd  conduct  of  this  third  visitor,  looked 
as  if  they  knew  not  what  to  think,  and  said  nothing. 
Instinctively  they  withdrew  further  and  further  from  the 
grim  gentleman  in  their  midst,  whom  some  of  them 
seemed  to  take  for  the  Prince  of  Darkness  himself,  till 
they  formed  a  remote  circle,  an  empty  space  of  floor 
being  left  between  them  and  him — 

' .  .  .  circulus,  cujus  centrum  diabolus.' 

The  room  was  so  silent — though  there  were  more 
than  twenty  people  in  it — that  nothing  could  be  heard 
but  the  patter  of  the  rain  against  the  window-shutters, 
accompanied  by  the  occasional  hiss  of  a  stray  drop  that 
fell  down  the  chimney  into  the  fire,  and  the  steady 
puffing  of  the  man  in  the  corner,  who  had  now  resumed 
his  pipe  of  long  clay. 

The  stillness  was  unexpectedly  broken.  The  distant 
sound  of  a  gun  reverberated  through  the  air — apparently 
from  the  direction  of  the  county-town. 

*  Be  jiggered ! '  cried  the  stranger  who  had  sung  the 
song,  jumping  up. 

'  \Vhat  does  that  mean  ? '  asked  several 

*  A  prisoner  escaped  from  the  jail — that's  what  it 
means.' 


,    '  THE  THREE  STRANGERS 

All  listened.  The  sound  was  repeated,  and  none 
of  them  spoke  but  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner,  who 
said  quietly,  'I've  often  been  told  that  in  this  county 
they  fire  a  gun  at  such  times;  but  I  never  heard  it 
till  now.' 

*  I  wonder  if  it  is  my  man  ? '  murmured  the  personage 
in  cinder-gray. 

'  Surely  it  is  ! '  said  the  shepherd  involuntarily.  '  And 
surely  we've  zeed  him !  That  little  man  who  looked 
in  at  the  door  by  now,  and  quivered  like  a  leaf  when  he 
zeed  ye  and  heard  your  song  ! ' 

'His  teeth  chattered,  and  the  breath  went  out  of 
his  body,'  said  the  dairyman. 

'And  his  heart  seemed  to  sink  within  him  like  a 
stone,'  said  Oliver  Giles. 

'And  he  bolted  as  if  he'd  been  shot  at,'  said  the 
hedge-carpenter. 

'  True — his  teeth  chattered,  and  his  heart  seemed  to 
sink  ;  and  he  bolted  as  if  he'd  been  shot  at,'  slowly 
summed  up  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner. 

'  I  didn't  notice  it,'  remarked  the  hangman. 

'  We  were  all  a-wondering  what  made  him  run  off  in 
such  a  fright,'  faltered  one  of  the  women  against  the 
wall,  '  and  now  'tis  explained ! ' 

The  firing  of  the  alarm-gun  went  on  at  intervals,  low 
and  sullenly,  and  their  suspicions  became  a  certainty. 
The  sinister  gentleman  in  cinder-gray  roused  himself. 

♦  Is  there  a  constable  here  ? '  he  asked,  in  thick  tones. 

•  If  so,  let  him  step  forward.' 

The  engaged  man  of  fifty  stepped  quavering  out  from 
the  wall,  his  betrothed  beginning  to  sob  on  the  back  of 
the  chair. 

'  You  are  a  sworn  constable  ?  * 

'  I  be,  sir.' 

'Then  pursue  the  criminal  at  once,  with  assistance, 
and  bring  him  back  here.     He  can't  have  gone  far.' 

'I   will,  sir,   I   will — when   I've  got   my   suff.     I'll 

53 


WE3SEX  TALES 

go  home  and  get  it,  and  come  sharp  here,  and  start  in 
a  body.' 

'Staff! — never  mind  your  staff;  the  man'll  be 
gone ! ' 

'  But  I  can't  do  nothing  without  my  staff — can  I, 
William,  and  John,  and  Charles  Jake  ?  No ;  for  there's 
the  king's  royal  crown  a  painted  on  en  in  yaller  and 
gold,  and  the  lion  and  the  unicorn,  so  as  when  I  raise 
en  up  and  hit  my  prisoner,  'tis  made  a  lawful  blow 
thereby.  I  wouldn't  'tempt  to  take  up  a  man  without 
my  staff — no,  not  I.  If  I  hadn't  the  law  to  gie  me 
courage,  why,  instead  o'  my  taking  up  him  he  might 
take  up  me ! ' 

'  Now,  I'm  a  king's  man  myself,  and  can  give  you 
authority  enough  for  this,'  said  the  formidable  officer 
in  gray.  '  Now  then,  all  of  ye,  be  ready.  Have  ye 
any  lanterns  ? ' 

'  Yes — have  ye  any  lanterns  ? — I  demand  it ! '  said 
the  constable. 

'  And  the  rest  of  you  able-bodied * 

'  Able-bodied  men — yes — the  rest  of  ye ! '  said  the 
constable. 

'  Have  you  some  good  stout  staves  and  pitch- 
forks  ' 

•Staves  and  pitchforks — in  the  name  o*  the  law! 
And  take  'em  in  yer  hands  and  go  in  quest,  and  do  as 
we  in  authority  tell  ye  I ' 

Thus  aroused,  the  men  prepared  to  give  chase.  The 
evidence  was,  indeed,  though  circumstantial,  so  con- 
vincing, that  but  little  argument  was  needed  to  show 
the  shepherd's  guests  that  after  what  they  had  seen  it 
would  look  very  much  like  connivance  if  they  did  not 
instantly  pursue  the  unhappy  third  stranger,  who  could 
not  as  yet  have  gone  more  than  a  few  hundred  yards 
over  such  uneven  country. 

A  shepherd  is  always  well  provided  with  lanterns ; 
and,  lighting  these  hastily,  and  with  hurdle-staves  in 

54 


S_T  THE  THREE   STRANGERS 

their  hands,  they  poured  out  of  the  door,  taking  a 
direction  along  the  crest  of  the  hill,  away  from  the 
town,  the  rain  having  fortunately  a  little  abated. 

Disturbed  by  the  noise,  or  possibly  by  unpleasant 
dreams  of  her  baptism,  the  child  who  had  been 
christened  began  to  cry  heart-brokenly  in  the  room 
overhead.  These  notes  of  grief  came  down  through 
the  chinks  of  the  floor  to  the  ears  of  the  women  below, 
who  jumped  up  one  by  one,  and  seemed  glad  of  the 
excuse  to  ascend  and  comfort  the  baby,  for  the  incidents 
of  the  last  half-hour  greatly  oppressed  them.  Thus  in 
the  space  of  two  or  three  minutes  the  room  on  the 
ground-floor  was  deserted  quite. 

But  it  was  not  for  long.  Hardly  had  the  sound  of 
footsteps  died  away  when  a  man  returned  round  the 
corner  of  the  house  from  the  direction  the  pursuers 
had  taken.  Peeping  in  at  the  door,  and  seeing  nobody 
there,  he  entered  leisurely.  It  was  the  stranger  of  the 
chimney-corner,  who  had  gone  out  with  the  rest.  The 
motive  of  his  return  was  shown  by  his  helping  himself 
to  a  cut  piece  of  skimmer-cake  that  lay  on  a  ledge 
beside  where  he  had  sat,  and  which  he  had  apparently 
forgotten  to  take  with  him.  He  also  poured  out  half 
a  cup  more  mead  from  the  quantity  that  remained, 
ravenously  eating  and  drinking  these  as  he  stood.  He 
had  not  finished  when  another  figure  came  in  just  as 
quietly — his  friend  in  cinder-gray. 

«  O  —  you  here  ? '  said  the  latter,  smiling.  *  I 
thought  you  had  gone  to  help  in  the  capture.'  And 
this  speaker  also  revealed  the  object  of  his  return  by 
looking  solicitously  round  for  the  fascinating  mug  of 
old  mead. 

*  And  I  thought  you  had  gone,'  said  the  other,  con- 
tinuing his  skimmer-cake  with  some  effort. 

'  Well,  on  second  thoughts,  I  felt  there  were 
enough  without  me,'  said  the  first  confidentially,  *  and 
such  a  night  as  it  is,  too.     Besides,  'tis  the  business 

*  55 


WESSEX  TALES 

o'  the  Government  to  take  care  of  its  criminals — not 
mine.' 

♦True;  so  it  is.  And  I  felt  as  you  did,  that  there 
were  enough  without  me.' 

'  I  don't  want  to  break  my  limbs  running  over  the 
humps  and  hollows  of  this  wild  country.' 

'  Nor  I  neither,  between  you  and  me.' 

♦These  shepherd-people  are  used  to  it  —  simple- 
minded  souls,  you  know,  stirred  up  to  anything  in  a 
moment.  They'll  have  him  ready  for  me  before  the 
morning,  and  no  trouble  to  me  at  all.'' 

*  They'll  have  him,  and  we  shall  have  saved  ourselves 
all  labour  in  the  matter.* 

'  True,  true.  Well,  my  way  is  to  Casterbridge ;  and 
'tis  as  much  as  my  legs  will  do  to  take  me  that  far. 
Going  the  same  way  ? ' 

'  No,  I  am  sorry  to  say !  I  have  to  get  home  over 
there '  (he  nodded  indefinitely  to  the  right),  '  and  I  feel 
SC5  you  do,  that  it  is  quite  enough  for  my  legs  to  do 
Defore  bedtime.' 

The  other  had  by  this  time  finished  the  mead  in 
the  mug,  after  which,  shaking  hands  heartily  at  the 
door,  and  wishing  each  other  well,  they  went  their 
several  ways. 

In  the  meantime  the  company  of  pursuers  had 
reached  the  end  of  the  hog's-back  elevation  which 
dominated  this  part  of  the  down.  They  had  decided 
on  no  particular  plan  of  action ;  and,  finding  that  the 
man  of  the  baleful  trade  was  no  longer  in  their  company, 
they  seemed  quite  unable  to  form  any  such  plan  now. 
They  descended  in  all  directions  down  the  hill,  and 
straightway  several  of  the  party  fell  into  the  snare  set 
by  Nature  for  all  misguided  midnight  ramblers  over 
this  part  of  the  cretaceous  formation.  The  '  lanchets,' 
or  flint  slopes,  which  belted  the  escarpment  at  intervals 
of  a  dozen  yards,  took  the  less  cautious  ones  unawares, 
and  losing  their  footing  on  the  rubbly  steep  they  slid 

.56 


THE   THREE  STRANGERS 

sharply  downwards,  the  lanterns  rolling  from  theii 
hands  to  the  bottom,  and  there  lying  on  their  sides  till 
the  horn  was  scorched  through. 

When  they  had  again  gathered  themselves  together, 
the  shepherd,  as  the  man  who  knew  the  country  best, 
took  the  lead,  and  guided  them  round  these  treacherous 
inclines.  The  lanterns,  which  seemed  rather  to  dazzle 
their  eyes  and  warn  the  fugitive  than  to  assist  them 
in  the  exploration,  Vv'ere  extinguished,  due  silence  was 
observed ;  and  in  this  more  rational  order  they  plunged 
into  the  vale.  It  was  a  grassy,  briery,  moist  defile, 
affording  some  shelter  to  any  person  who  had  sought 
it ;  but  the  party  perambulated  it  in  vain,  and  ascended 
on  the  other  side.  Here  they  wandered  apart,  and  after 
an  interval  closed  together  again  to  report  progress. 
At  the  second  time  of  closing  in  they  found  themselves 
near  a  lonely  ash,  the  single  tree  on  this  part  of  the 
coomb,  probably  sown  there  by  a  passing  bird  some 
fifty  years  before.  And  here,  standing  a  little  to  one 
side  of  the  trunk,  as  motionless  as  the  trunk  itself, 
appeared  the  man  they  were  in  quest  of,  his  outline 
being  well  defined  against  the  sky  beyond.  The  band 
noiselessly  drew  up  and  faced  him. 

'  Your  money  or  your  life ! '  said  the  constable  sternly 
to  the  still  figure. 

'  No,  no,'  whispered  John  Pitcher.  '  'Tisn't  our  side 
ought  to  say  that.  That's  the  doctrine  of  vagabonds 
like  him,  and  we  be  on  the  side  of  the  law.' 

'  Well,  well,'  replied  the  constable  impatiently ;  '  I 
must  say  something,  mustn't  I  ?  and  if  you  had  all  the 
weight  o'  this  undertaking  upon  your  mind,  perhaps 
you'd  say  the  wrong  thing  too  ! — Prisoner  at  the  bar, 
surrender,  in  the  name  of  the  Father — the  Crown,  I 
mane ! ' 

The  man  under  the  tree  seemed  now  to  notice  them 
for  the  first  time,  and,  giving  them  no  opportunity 
whatever  for  exhibiting  their  coiu^ge,  he  strolled  slowly 

57 


WESSEX  TALES 

towards  them.  He  was,  indeed,  the  little  man,  the 
ihird  stranger;  but  his  trepidation  had  in  a  great 
measure  gone. 

'  Well,  travellers,*  he  said,  did  I  hear  ye  speak  to 
me?' 

*  You  did :  you've  got  to  come  and  be  our  prisoner 
at  once ! '  said  the  constable.  '  We  arrest  'ee  on  the 
charge  of  not  biding  in  Casterbridge  jail  in  a  decent 
proper  manner  to  be  hung  to-morrow  morning.  Neigh- 
bours, do  your  duty,  and  seize  the  culpet ! ' 

On  hearing  the  charge,  the  man  seemed  enlightened, 
and,  saying  not  another  word,  resigned  himself  with 
preternatural  civility  to  the  search-party,  who,  with  their 
staves  in  their  hands,  surrounded  him  on  all  sides,  and 
marched  him  back  towards  the  shepherd's  cottage. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  by  the  time  they  arrived.  The 
light  shining  from  the  open  door,  a  sound  of  men's 
voices  within,  proclaimed  to  them  as  they  approached 
the  house  that  some  new  events  had  arisen  in  thciir 
absence.  On  entering  they  discovered  the  shepherd's 
living  room  to  be  invaded  by  two  officers  from  Caster- 
bridge  jail,  and  a  well-known  magistrate  who  lived  at 
the  nearest  country-seat,  intelligence  of  the  escape  having 
become  generally  circulated. 

'Gentlemen,'  said  the  constable,  'I  have  brought 
back  your  man — not  without  risk  and  danger ;  but 
every  one  must  do  his  duty !  He  is  inside  this  circle 
of  able-bodied  persons,  who  have  lent  me  useful  aid, 
considering  their  ignorance  of  Crown  work.  Men,  bring 
forward  your  prisoner  1 '  And  the  third  stranger  was 
led  to  the  light. 

*  Who  is  this  ? '  said  one  of  the  officials. 
'  The  man,'  said  the  constable. 

•Certainly  not,'  said  the  turnkey;  and  the  first 
corroborated  his  statement. 

'  But  how  can  it  be  otherwise  ? '  asked  the  constable. 
•Or  why  was  he  so  terrified  at  sight  o'  the  singing 

58 


i-,'  THE  THREE   STRANGERS 

instrument  of  the  law  who  sat  there  ? '  Here  he  re- 
lated the  strange  behaviour  of  the  third  stranger  on 
entering  the  house  during  the  hangman's  song, 

'  Can't  understand  it,'  said  the  officer  coolly.  '  All 
I  know  is  that  it  is  not  the  condemned  man.  He's 
quite  a  different  character  from  this  one;  a  gauntish 
fellow,  with  dark  hair  and  eyes,  rather  good-looking, 
and  with  a  musical  bass  voice  that  if  you  heard  it  once 
you'd  never  mistake  as  long  as  you  lived.' 

'  Why,  souls — 'twas  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner ! ' 

'  Hey — what  ?  *  said  the  magistrate,  coming  forward 
after  inquiring  particulars  from  the  shepherd  in  the 
background.     '  Haven't  you  got  the  man  after  all  ?  ' 

'  Well,  sir,'  said  the  constable,  *  he's  the  man  we 
were  in  search  of,  that's  true;  and  yet  he's  not  the 
man  we  were  in  search  of.  For  the  man  we  were  in 
search  of  was  not  the  man  we  wanted,  sir,  if  you 
understand  my  everyday  way ;  for  'twas  the  man  in  the 
chimney-corner ! ' 

'  A  pretty  kettle  of  fish  altogether ! '  said  the 
magistrate.  '  You  had  better  start  for  the  other  man 
at  once.* 

The  prisoner  now  spoke  for  the  first  time.  The 
mention  of  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner  seemed  to 
have  moved  him  as  nothing  else  could  do.  '  Sir,'  he 
said,  stepping  forward  to  the  magistrate,  '  take  no  more 
trouble  about  me.  The  time  is  come  when  I  may  as 
well  speak.  I  have  done  nothing;  my  crime  is  that 
the  condemned  man  is  my  brother.  Early  this  after- 
noon I  left  home  at  Shottsford  to  tramp  it  all  the  way 
to  Casterbridge  jail  to  bid  him  farewell.  I  was  be- 
nighted, and  called  here  to  rest  and  ask  the  way. 
When  I  opened  the  door  I  saw  before  me  the  very 
man,  my  brother,  that  I  thought  to  see  in  the  con- 
demned cell  at  Casterbridge.  He  was  in  this  chimney- 
corner;  and  jammed  close  to  him,  so  that  he  could 
not  have  got  out  if  he  had  tried,  was  the  executioner 

59 


WESSEX  TALES 

who'd  come  to  take  his  Ufe,  singing  a  song  about  it  and 
not  knowing  that  it  was  his  victim  who  was  close  by, 
joining  in  to  save  appearances.  My  brother  looked  a 
glance  of  agony  at  me,  and  I  knew  he  meant,  "  Don't 
reveal  what  you  see;  my  life  depends  on  it."  I  was 
so  terror-struck  that  I  could  hardly  stand,  and,  not 
knowing  what  I  did,  I  turned  and  hurried  away.* 

The  narrator's  manner  and  tone  had  the  stamp  of 
truth,  and  his  story  made  a  great  impression  on  all 
around.  *  And  do  you  know  where  your  brother  is  at 
the  present  time  ? '  asked  the  magistrate. 

'  I  do  not.  I  have  never  seen  him  since  I  closed 
this  door.' 

'  I  can  testify  to  that,  for  we've  been  between  ye 
ever  since,'  said  the  constable. 

*  Where  does  he  think  to  fly  to  ?  —  what  is  his 
occupation  ? ' 

'  He's  a  watch-and-clock-maker,  sir.' 

"A  said  'a  was  a  wheelwright — a  wicked  rogue,' 
said  the  constable. 

'  The  wheels  of  clocks  and  watches  he  meant,  no 
doubt,'  said  Shepherd  Fennel.  *  I  thought  his  hands 
were  palish  for's  trade.' 

'  Well,  it  appears  to  me  that  nothing  can  be  gained 
by  retaining  this  poor  man  in  custody,'  said  the  magis- 
trate; 'your  business  lies  with  the  other,  unquestion- 
ably.' 

And  so  the  little  man  was  released  off-hand ;  but  he 
looked  nothing  the  less  sad  on  that  account,  it  being 
beyond  the  power  of  magistrate  or  constable  to  raze  out 
the  written  troubles  in  his  brain,  for  they  concerned 
another  whom  he  regarded  with  more  solicitude  than 
himself.  When  this  was  done,  and  the  man  had  gone 
his  way,  the  night  was  found  to  be  so  far  advanced  that 
it  was  deemed  useless  to  renew  the  search  before  the 
next  morning. 

Next  day,  accordingly,  the  quest  for  the  clever  sheep- 

.      60 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS 

stealer  became  general  and  keen,  to  all  appearance  at 
least.  But  the  intended  punishment  was  cruelly  dis- 
proportioned  to  the  transgression,  and  the  sympathy  of 
a  great  many  country-folk  in  that  district  was  strongly 
on  the  side  of  the  fugitive.  Moreover,  his  marvellous 
coolness  and  daring  in  hob-and-nobbing  with  the  hang- 
man, under  the  unprecedented  circumstances  of  the 
shepherd's  party,  won  their  admiration.  So  that  it  may 
be  questioned  if  all  those  who  ostensibly  made  them- 
selves so  busy  in  exploring  woods  and  fields  and  lanes 
were  quite  so  thorough  when  it  came  to  the  private 
examination  of  their  own  lofts  and  outhouses.  Stories 
were  afloat  of  a  mysterious  figure  being  occasionally 
seen  in  some  old  overgrown  trackway  or  other,  remote 
from  turnpike  roads ;  but  when  a  search  was  instituted 
in  any  of  these  suspected  quarters  nobody  was  found. 
Thus  the  days  and  weeks  passed  without  tidings. 

In  brief,  the  bass-voiced  man  of  the  chimney-corner 
was  never  recaptured.  Some  said  that  he  went  across 
the  sea,  others  that  he  did  not,  but  buried  himself  in  the 
depths  of  a  populous  city.  At  any  rate,  the  gentleman 
in  cinder-gray  never  did  his  morning's  work  at  Caster- 
bridge,  nor  met  anywhere  at  all,  for  business  purposes, 
the  genial  comrade  with  whom  he  had  passed  an  hour 
of  relaxation  in  the  lonely  house  on  the  coomb. 

The  grass  has  long  been  green  on  the  graves  of 
Shepherd  Fennel  and  his  frugal  wife;  the  guests  who 
made  up  the  christening  party  have  mainly  followed  their 
entertainers  to  the  tomb;  the  baby  in  whose  honour  they 
all  had  met  is  a  matron  in  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf.  But 
the  arrival  of  the  three  strangers  at  the  shepherd's  that 
night,  and  the  details  connected  therewith,  is  a  story 
as  well  known  as  ever  in  the  country  about  Higher 
Crowstairs. 

March  1S83. 

61 


THE   WITHERED  ARM 


A  LORN  MILKMAID 


It  was  an  eighty-cow  dairy,  and  the  troop  of  milkers, 
regular  and  supernumerary,  were  all  at  work ;  for, 
though  the  time  of  year  was  as  yet  but  early  April, 
the  feed  lay  entirely  in  water-meadows,  and  the  cows 
were  'in  full  pail.'  The  hour  was  about  six  in  the 
evening,  and  three-fourths  of  the  large,  red,  rectangular 
animals  having  been  finished  off,  there  was  opportunity 
for  a  little  conversation. 

'  He  do  bring  home  his  bride  to-morrow,  I  hear. 
They've  come  as  far  as  Anglebury  to-day.' 

The  voice  seemed  to  proceed  from  the  belly  of  the 
cow  called  Cherry,  but  the  speaker  was  a  milking- woman, 
whose  face  was  buried  in  the  flank  of  that  motionless 
beast. 

'  Hav*  anybody  seen  her  ? '  said  another. 

There  was  a  negative  response  from  the  first. 
*  Though  they  say  she's  a  rosy-cheeked,  tisty-tosty  little 
body  enough,'  she  added ;  and  as  the  milkmaid  spoke 
she  turned  her  face  so  that  she  could  glance  past  her 
cow's  tail  to  the  other  side  of  the  barton,  where  a  thin, 
fading  woman  of  thirty  milked  somewhat  apart  from 
the  rest 


WESSEX  TALES 

'Years  younger  than  he,  they  say,'  continued  thw 
second,  with  also  a  glance  of  reflectiveness  in  the  same 
direction. 

*  How  old  do  you  call  him,  then  ? ' 
'  Thirty  or  so.' 

•  More  like  forty,'  broke  in  an  old  milkman  near,  in 
a  long  white  pinafore  or  *  wropper,'  and  with  the  brim 
of  his  hat  tied  down,  so  that  he  looked  like  a  woman. 
*  'A  was  born  before  our  Great  Weir  was  builded,  and 
I  hadn't  man's  wages  when  I  laved  water  there.' 

The  discussion  waxed  so  warm  that  the  purr  of  the 
milk-streams  became  jerky,  till  a  voice  from  another 
cow's  belly  cried  with  authority,  *  Now  then,  what  the 
Turk  do  it  matter  to  us  about  Farmer  Lodge's  age,  or 
Farmer  Lodge's  new  mis'ess?  I  shall  have  to  pay 
him  nine  pound  a  year  for  the  rent  of  every  one  of 
these  milchers,  whatever  his  age  or  hers.  Get  on  with 
your  work,  or  'twill  be  dark  afore  we  have  done.  The 
evening  is  pinking  in  a'ready.'  This  speaker  was  the 
dairyman  himself,  by  whom  the  milkmaids  and  men 
were  employed. 

Nothing  more  was  said  publicly  about  Farmer  Lodge's 
wedding,  but  the  first  woman  murmured  under  her  cow 
to  her  next  neighbour,  *  'Tis  hard  for  she^  signifying  the 
thin  worn  milkmaid  aforesaid. 

'  O  no,'  said  the  second.  '  He  ha'n't  spoke  to 
Rhoda  Brook  for  years.' 

When  the  milking  was  done  they  washed  their  pails 
and  hung  them  on  a  many-forked  stand  made  of  the 
peeled  limb  of  an  oak-tree,  set  upright  in  the  earth,  and 
resembling  a  colossal  antlered  horn.  The  majority  then 
dispersed  in  various  directions  homeward.  The  thin 
woman  who  had  not  spoken  was  joined  by  a  boy  of 
twelve  or  thereabout,  and  the  twain  went  away  up  the 
field  also. 

Their  course  lay  apart  from  that  of  the  others,  to  a 
lonely  spot  high  above  the  water-meads,  and  not  far 

66 


ij;.  THE  WITHERED  ARM 

from  the  border  of  Egdon  Heath,  whose  dark  counte- 
nance was  visible  in  the  distance  as  they  drew  nigh  to 
their  home. 

'  They've  just  been  saying  down  in  barton  that  your 
father  brings  his  young  wife  home  from  Anglebury  to- 
morrow,' the  woman  observed.  'I  shall  want  to  send 
you  for  a  few  things  to  market,  and  you'll  be  pretty 
sure  to  meet  'em.' 

•  Yes,  mother,'  said  the  boy.  '  Is  father  married 
then  ? ' 

'  Yes.  ,  .  .  You  can  give  her  a  look,  and  tell  me 
what's  she's  like,  if  you  do  see  her.' 

'  Yes,  mother.' 

'If  she's  dark  or  fair,  and  if  she's  tall — as  tall  as  I. 
And  if  she  seems  like  a  woman  who  has  ever  worked 
for  a  living,  or  one  that  has  been  always  well  off,  and 
has  never  done  anything,  and  shows  marks  of  the  lady 
on  her,  as  I  expect  she  do.' 

'Yes.' 

They  crept  up  the  hill  in  the  twilight,  and  entered 
the  cottage.  It  was  built  of  mud-walls,  the  surface  of 
which  had  been  washed  by  many  rains  into  channels  and 
depressions  that  left  none  of  the  original  flat  face  visible ; 
while  here  and  there  ii)  the  thatch  above  a  rafter 
showed  like  a  bone  portruding  through  the  skin.    0  ■^' 

She  was  kneeling  down  in  the  chimney-corner,  before 
two  pieces  of  turf  laid  together  with  the  heather  inwards, 
blowing  at  the  red-hot  ashes  with  her  breath  till  the 
turves  flamed.  The  radiance  lit  her  pale  cheek,  and 
made  her  dark  eyes,  that  had  once  been  handsome, 
seem  handsome  anew.  '  Yes,'  she  resumed,  '  see  if  she 
is  dark  or  fair,  and  if  you  can,  notice  if  her  hands  be 
white ;  if  not,  see  if  they  look  as  though  she  had  ever 
done  housework,  or  are  milker's  hands  like  mine.' 

The  boy  again  promised,  inattentively  this  time,  his 
mother  not  observing  that  he  was  cutting  a  notch  with 
his  pocket-knife  in  the  beech-backed  chair. 

67 


THE   YOUNG   WIFE 

II 

1  HE  road  from  Anglebury  to  Holmstoke  is  in  general 
level;  but  there  is  one  place  where  a  sharp  ascent 
breaks  its  monotony.  Farmers  homeward-bound  from 
the  former  market-town,  who  trot  all  the  rest  of  the 
way,  walk  their  horses  up  this  short  incline. 

The  next  evening,  while  the  sun  was  yet  bright,  a 
handsome  new  gig,  with  a  lemon-coloured  body  and 
red  wheels,  was  spinning  westward  along  the  level 
highway  at  the  heels  of  a  powerful  mare.  The  driver 
was  a  yeoman  in  the  prime  of  life,  cleanly  shaven  like 
an  actor,  his  face  being  toned  to  that  bluish-vermilion 
hue  which  so  often  graces  a  tliriving  farmer's  features 
when  returning  home  after  successful  dealings  in  the 
town.  Beside  him  sat  a  woman,  many  years  his  junior 
— almost,  indeed,  a  girl.  Her  face  too  was  fresh  in 
colour,  but  it  was  of  a  totally  different  quality — soft  and 
evanescent,  like  the  light  under  a  heap  of  rose-petals. 

Few  people  travelled  this  way,  for  it  was  not  a 
main  road ;  and  the  long  white  riband  of  gravel  that 
stretched  before  them  was  empty,  save  of  one  small 
scarce-moving  speck,  which  presently  resolved  itself 
ipto  the  figure  of  a   boy,  who   was  creeping  on  at  a 

68 


^_:  THE  WITHERED  ARM 

snail's  pace,  and  continually  looking  behind  him — the 
heavy  bundle  he  carried  being  some  excuse  for,  if  not 
the  reason  of,  his  dilatoriness.  When  the  bouncing 
gig-party  slowed  at  the  bottom  of  the  incline  above 
mentioned,  the  pedestrian  was  only  a  few  yards  in 
front.  Supporting  the  large  bundle  by  putting  one 
hand  on  his  hip,  he  turned  and  looked  straight  at  the 
farmer's  wife  as  though  he  would  read  her  through  and 
through,  pacing  along  abreast  of  the  horse. 

The  low  sun  was  full  in  her  face,  rendering  every 
feature,  shade,  and  contour  distinct,  from  the  curve  of 
her  httle  nostril  to  the  colour  of  her  eyes.  The  farmer, 
though  he  seemed  annoyed  at  the  boy's  persistent  pre- 
sence, did  not  order  him  to  get  out  of  the  way ;  and  thus 
the  lad  preceded  them,  his  hard  gaze  never  leaving  her, 
till  they  reached  the  top  of  the  ascent,  when  the  fanner 
trotted  on  with  relief  in  his  lineaments— having  taken 
no  outward  notice  of  the  boy  whatever. 

'  How  that  poor  lad  stared  at  me ! '  said  the  young 
wife. 

•  Yes,  dear ;  I  saw  that  he  did.' 

'  He  is  one  of  the  village,  I  suppose  ? ' 

*  One  of  the  neighbourhood.  I  think  he  lives  with 
his  mother  a  mile  or  two  off.' 

'  He  knows  who  we  are,  no  doubt  ? ' 

'  O  yes.  You  must  expect  to  be  stared  at  just  at 
first,  my  pretty  Gertrude.' 

'  I  do, — though  I  think  the  poor  boy  may  have 
looked  at  us  in  the  hope  we  might  relieve  him  of  his 
heavy  load,  rather  than  from  curiosity.' 

'  O  no,'  said  her  husband  off-handedly.  *  These 
country  lads  will  carry  a  hundredweight  once  they  get 
it  on  their  backs ;  besides  his  pack  had  more  size  than 
weight  in  it.  Now,  then,  another  mile  and  I  shall  be 
able  to  show  you  our  house  in  the  distance — if  it  is 
not  too  dark  before  we  get  there.'  The  wheels  spun 
round,  and  particles  flew  from  their  periphery  as  before, 

69 


WESSEX   TALES 

till  a  white  house  of  ample  dimensions  revealed  itself, 
with  farm-buildings  and  ricks  at  the  back. 

Meanwhile  the  boy  had  quickened  his  pace,  and 
turning  up  a  by-lane  some  mile  and  half  short  of  the 
white  farmstead,  ascended  towards  the  leaner  pastures, 
and  so  on  to  the  cottage  of  his  mother. 

She  had  reached  home  after  her  day's  milking  at  the 
outlying  dairy,  and  was  washing  cabbage  at  the  doarway 
in  the  declining  light.  *  Hold  up  the  net  a  moment,' 
she  said,  without  preface,  as  the  boy  came  up. 

He  flung  down  his  bundle,  held  the  edge  of  the 
cabbage-net,  and  as  she  filled  its  meshes  with  the 
dripping  leaves  she  went  on,  *  Well,  did  you  see  her  ? ' 

*  Yes ;  quite  plain.' 

*  Is  she  ladylike  ? ' 

*  Yes ;  and  more.     A  lady  complete.* 
'  Is  she  young  ?  ' 

•Well,  she's  growed  up,  and  her  ways  be  quite  a 
woman's.' 

*  Of  course.     What  colour  is  her  hair  and  face  ? ' 

'  Her  hair  is  lightish,  and  her  face  as  comely  as  a 

live  doll's.' 

'  Her  eyes,  then,  are  not  dark  like  mine  ? ' 

'  No — of  a  bluish  turn,  and  her  mouth  is  very  nice 

and  red ;  and  when  she  smiles,  her  teeth  show  white.' 

*  Is  she  tall  ? '  said  the  woman  sharply. 

'  I  couldn't  see.     She  was  sitting  down.' 

*  Then  do  you  go  to  Holmstoke  church  to-morrow 
morning :  she's  sure  to  be  there.  Go  early  and  notice 
her  walking  in,  and  come  home  and  tell  me  if  she's 
taller  than  I.' 

'  Very  well,  mother.  But  why  don't  you  go  and  see 
for  yourself? ' 

'/go  to  see  her!  I  wouldn't  look  up  at  her  if  she 
were  to  pass  my  window  this  instant.  She  was  v/ith 
Mr.  Lodge,  of  course.     What  did  he  say  or  do  ? ' 

'  Just  the  same  as  usual.* 

70 


THE  WITHERED  ARM 

*  Took  no  notice  of  you  ? ' 

*  None.' 

Next  day  the  mother  put  a  clean  shirt  on  the  boy, 
and  started  him  off  for  Holmstoke  church.  He  reachai 
the  ancient  httle  pile  when  the  door  was  just  being 
opened,  and  he  was  the  first  to  enter.  Taking  his  seat 
by  the  font,  he  watched  all  the  parishioners  file  in.  The 
well-to-do  Farmer  Lodge  came  nearly  last ;  and  his 
young  wife,  who  accompanied  him,  walked  up  the  aisle 
with  the  shyness  natural  to  a  modest  woman  who  had 
appeared  thus  for  the  first  time.  As  all  other  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  her,  the  youth's  stare  was  not  noticed  now. 

When  he  reached  home  his  mother  said,  '  Well  ? ' 
before  he  had  entered  the  room. 

*  She  is  not  tall.     She  is  rather  short,'  he  replied. 

*  Ah ! '  said  his  mother,  with  satisfaction. 

♦But  she's  very  pretty — very.  In  fact,  she's  lovely.' 
The  youthful  freshness  of  the  yeoman's  wife  had  evi- 
dently made  an  impression  even  on  the  somewhat  hard 
nature  of  the  boy. 

'That's  all  I  want  to  hear,'  said  his  mother  quickly. 
'  Now,  spread  the  table-cloth.  The  hare  you  caught  is 
very  tender ;  but  mind  that  nobody  catches  you. — You've 
never  told  me  what  sort  of  hands  she  had.' 

*  I  have  never  seen  'em.  She  never  took  off  her 
gloves.' 

'  WTiat  did  she  wear  this  morning  ?  ' 

*  A  white  bonnet  and  a  silver-coloured  gownd.  It 
whewed  and  whistled  so  loud  when  it  rubbed  against 
the  pews  that  the  lady  coloured  up  more  than  ever  for 
very  shame  at  the  noise,  and  pulled  it  in  to  keep  it  from 
touching ;  but  when  she  pushed  into  her  seat,  it  whewed 
more  than  ever.  Mr.  Lodge,  he  seemed  pleased,  and 
his  waistcoat  stuck  out,  and  his  great  golden  seals  hung 
like  a  lord's ;  but  she  seemed  to  wish  her  noisy  gownd 
anjnfphere  but  on  her.' 

*  Not  she  1     However,  that  wUl  do  now,* 
r  71 


WESSEX  TALES 

These  descriptions  of  the  newly-married  couple  were 
continued  from  time  to  time  by  the  boy  at  his  mother's 
request,  after  any  chance  encounter  he  had  had  with 
them.  But  Rhoda  Brook,  though  she  might  easily  have 
seen  young  Mrs.  Lodge  for  herself  by  walking  a  couple 
of  miles,  would  never  attempt  an  excursion  towards  the 
quarter  where  the  farmhouse  lay.  Neither  did  she,  at 
the  daily  milking  in  the  dairyman's  yard  on  Lodge's 
outlying  second  farm,  ever  speak  on  the  subject  of  the 
recent  marriage.  The  dairyman,  who  rented  the  cows 
of  Lodge,  and  knew  perfectly  the  tall  milkmaid's  history, 
with  manly  kindliness  always  kept  the  gossip  in  the 
cow-barton  from  annoying  Rhoda.  But  the  atmosphere 
thereabout  was  full  of  the  subject  during  the  first  days 
of  Mrs.  Lodge's  arrival;  and  from  her  boy's  description 
and  the  casual  words  of  the  other  milkers,  Rhoda  Brook 
could  raise  a  mental  image  of  the  unconscious  Mrs. 
Lodge  that  was  realistic  as  a  photograph. 


A    VISION 

III 

One  night,  two  or  three  weeks  after  the  bridal  return, 
when  the  boy  was  gone  to  bed,  Rhoda  sat  a  long  time 
over  the  turf  ashes  that  she  had  raked  out  in  front  of 
her  to  extinguish  them.  She  contemplated  so  intently 
the  new  wife,  as  presented  to  her  in  her  mind's  eye  over 
the  embers,  that  she  forgot  the  lapse  of  time.  At  last, 
wearied  with  her  day's  work,  she  too  retired. 

But  the  figure  which  had  occupied  her  so  much 
during  this  and  the  previous  days  was  not  to  be  banished 
at  night.  For  the  first  time  Gertrude  Lodge  visited 
the  supplanted  woman  in  her  dreams.  Rhoda  Brook 
dreamed — since  her  assertion  that  she  really  saw,  before 
falling  asleep,  was  not  to  be  believed — that  the  young 
wife,  in  the  pale  silk  dress  and  white  bonnet,  but  with 
features  shockingly  distorted,  and  wrinkled  as  by  age, 
was  sitting  upon  her  chest  as  she  lay.  The  pressure  of 
Mrs.  Lodge's  person  grew  heavier ;  the  blue  eyes  peered 
cruelly  into  her  face ;  and  then  the  figure  thrust  forward 
its  left  hand  mockingly,  so  as  to  make  the  wedding, 
ring  it  wore  glitter  in  Rhoda's  eyes.  Maddened  men- 
tally, and  nearly  suffocated  by  pressure,  the  sleeper 
struggled;  the  incubus,  still  regarding  her,  withdrew  to 

73 


WESSEX   TALES 

the  foot  of  the  bed,  only,  however,  to  come  forward  by 
degrees,  resume  her  seat,  and  flash  her  left  hand  as 
before. 

Gasping  for  breath,  Rhoda,  in  a  last  desperate  effort, 
swung  out  her  right  hand,  seized  the  confronting 
spectre  by  its  obtrusive  left  arm,  and  whirled  it  back- 
ward to  the  floor,  starting  up  herself  as  she  did  so  with 
a  low  cry. 

'  O,  merciful  heaven  ! '  she  cried,  sitting  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed  in  a  cold  sweat;  'that  was  not  a  dream — 
she  was  here ! ' 

She  could  feel  her  antagonist's  arm  within  her  grasp 
even  now — the  very  flesh  and  bone  of  it,  as  it  seemed. 
She  looked  on  the  floor  whither  she  had  whirled  the 
spectre,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen. 

Rhoda  Brook  slept  no  more  that  night,  and  when 
she  went  milking  at  the  next  dawn  they  noticed  how 
pale  and  haggard  she  looked.  The  milk  that  she  drew 
quivered  into  the  pail ;  her  hand  had  not  calmed  even 
yet,  and  still  retained  the  feel  of  the  arm.  She  came 
home  to  breakfast  as  wearily  as  if  it  had  been  supper- 
time. 

'  What  was  that  noise  in  your  chimmer,  mother,  last 
night  ? '  said  her  son.     *  You  fell  off  the  bed,  surely  ? ' 

'  Did  you  hear  anything  fall  ?     At  what  time  ?  ' 

'  Just  when  the  clock  struck  two.' 

She  could  not  explain,  and  when  the  meal  was  done 
went  silently  about  her  household  work,  the  boy  assist- 
ing her,  fcr  he  hated  going  afield  on  the  farms,  and  she 
indulged  his  reluctance.  Between  eleven  and  twelve 
the  garden-gate  clicked,  and  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  the 
window.  At  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  within  the. 
gate,  stood  the  woman  of  her  vision.  Rhoda  seemed 
transfixed. 

*  Ah,  she  said  she  would  come ! '  exclaimed  the  boy, 
also  observing  her. 

*  Said  so — when  ?     How  does  she  know  us  ? ' 

74 


y  '  THE  WITHERED   ARM 

*  I  have  seen  and  spoken  to  her.  I  talked  to  hei 
yesterday.' 

'  I  told  you,'  said  the  mother,  flushing  indignantly, 
'  never  to  speak  to  anybody  in  that  house,  or  go  near 
the  place.' 

'  I  did  not  speak  to  her  till  she  spoke  to  me.  And 
I  did  not  go  near  the  place.     I  met  her  in  the  road.' 

♦  What  did  you  tell  her  ?  ' 

•Nothing.  She  said,  "Are  you  the  poor  boy  who 
had  to  bring  the  heavy  load  from  market  ?  "  And  she 
looked  at  my  boots,  and  said  they  would  not  keep  my 
feet  dry  if  it  came  on  wet,  because  they  were  so  cracked. 
I  told  her  I  lived  with  my  mother,  and  we  had  enough 
to  do  to  keep  ourselves,  and  that's  how  it  was ;  and  she 
said  then,  "  I'll  come  and  bring  you  some  better  boots, 
and  see  your  mother."  She  gives  away  things  to  other 
folks  in  the  meads  besides  us.' 

Mrs.  Lodge  was  by  this  time  close  to  the  door — not 
in  her  silk,  as  Rhoda  had  seen  her  in  the  bed-chamber, 
but  in  a  morning  hat,  and  gown  of  common  light  material, 
which  became  her  better  than  silk.  On  her  arm  she 
carried  a  basket. 

The  impression  remaining  from  the  night's  experience 
was  still  strong.  Brook  had  almost  expected  to  see  the 
wrinkles,  the  scorn,  and  the  cruelty  on  her  visitor's  face. 
She  would  have  escaped  an  interview,  had  escape  been 
possible.  There  was,  however,  no  backdoor  to  the 
cottage,  and  in  an  instant  the  boy  had  lifted  the  latch 
to  Mrs.  Lodge's  gentle  knock. 

'I  see  I  have  come  to  the  right  house,'  said  she, 
glancing  at  the  lad,  and  smiling.  '  But  I  was  not  sure 
till  you  opened  the  door.* 

The  figure  and  action  were  those  of  the  phantom ; 
but  her  voice  was  so  indescribably  sweet,  her  glance  so 
winning,  her  smile  so  tender,  so  unlike  that  of  Rhoda's 
midnight  visitant,  that  the  latter  could  hardly  believe 
the  evidence  of  her  senses.     She  was  truly  glad  that 

75 


V/ESSEX   TALES 

she  had  not  hidden  away  in  sheer  aversion,  as  she  had 
been  inclined  to  do.  In  her  basket  Mrs.  Lodge  brought 
the  pair  of  boots  that  she  had  promised  to  the  boy,  and 
other  useful  articles. 

At  these  proofs  of  a  kindly  feeling  towards  her  and 
hers  Rhoda's  heart  reproached  her  bitterly.  This  inno 
cent  young  thing  should  have  her  blessing  and  not  her 
curse.  When  she  left  them  a  light  seemed  gone  from 
the  dwelling.  Two  days  later  she  came  again  to  know 
if  the  boots  fitted ;  and  less  than  a  fortnight  after  that 
paid  Rhoda  another  call.  On  this  occasion  the  boy 
was  absent. 

*  I  walk  a  good  deal,'  said  Mrs.  Lodge,  '  and  your 
house  is  the  nearest  outside  our  own  parish.  I  hope 
you  are  well.     You  don't  look  quite  well.' 

Rhoda  said  she  was  well  enough;  and,  indeed, 
though  the  paler  of  the  two,  there  was  more  of  the 
strength  that  endures  in  her  well-defined  features  and 
large  frame,  than  in  the  soft-cheeked  young  woman  be- 
fore her.  The  conversation  became  quite  confidential 
as  regarded  their  powers  and  weaknesses ;  and  when 
Mrs.  Lodge  was  leaving,  Rhoda  said,  '  I  hope  you  will 
find  this  air  agree  with  you,  ma'am,  and  not  suffer  from 
the  damp  of  the  water-meads.' 

The  younger  one  replied  that  there  was  not  much 
doubt  of  it,  her  general  health  being  usually  good. 
'  Though,  now  you  remind  me,'  she  added,  '  I  have 
one  litttle  ailment  which  puzzles  me.  It  is  nothing 
serious,  but  I  cannot  make  it  out.' 

She  uncovered  her  left  hand  and  arm;  and  their 
outline  confronted  Rhoda's  gaze  as  the  exact  original 
of  the  limb  she  had  beheld  and  seized  in  her  dream. 
Upon  the  pink  round  surface  of  the  arm  were  faint 
marks  of  an  unhealthy  colour,  as  if  produced  by  a 
rough  grasp.  Rhoda's  eyes  became  riveted  on  the  dis- 
colorations ;  she  fancied  that  she  discerned  in  them  the 
shape  of  her  own  four  fingers. 

76 


THE  WITHERED  ARM 

*  How  did  it  happen  ? '  she  said  mechanically. 

'  I  cannot  tell,'  replied  Mrs.  Lodge,  shaking  her  head. 
'One  night  when  I  was  sound  asleep,  dreaming  I  was 
away  in  some  strange  place,  a  pain  suddenly  shot  into 
my  arm  there,  and  was  so  keen  as  to  awaken  me.  I 
must  have  struck  it  in  the  daytime,  I  suppose,  though 
I  don't  remember  doing  so.'  She  added,  laughing,  '  I 
tell  my  dear  husband  that  it  looks  just  as  if  he  had 
flown  into  a  rage  and  struck  me  there.  O,  I  daresay 
it  will  soon  disappear.' 

'  Ha,  ha !     Yes.  ...  On  what  night  did  it  come  ?  * 

Mrs.  Lodge  considered,  and  said  it  would  be  a 
fortnight  ago  on  the  morrow.  *  When  I  awoke  I  could 
not  remember  where  I  was,'  she  added,  '  till  the  clock 
striking  two  reminded  me.' 

She  had  named  the  night  and  the  hour  of  Rhoda's 
spectral  encounter,  and  Brook  felt  like  a  guilty  thing. 
The  artless  disclosure  startled  her;  she  did  not  reason 
on  the  freaks  of  coincidence;  and  all  the  scenery  of 
that  ghastly  night  returned  with  double  vividness  to 
her  mind. 

'  O,  can  it  be,'  she  said  to  herself,  when  her  visitor 
had  departed,  *  that  I  exercise  a  malignant  power  over 
people  against  my  own  will  ?  '  She  knew  that  she  had 
been  slily  called  a  witch  since  her  fall;  but  never 
having  understood  why  that  particular  stigma  had  been 
attached  to  her,  it  had  passed  disregarded.  Could  this 
be  the  explanation,  and  had  such  things  as  this  ever 
happened  before? 


A  SUGGESTION 

IV 

The  summer  drew  on,  and  Rhoda  Brook  almost 
dreaded  to  meet  Mrs.  Lodge  again,  notwithstanding 
that  her  feeling  for  the  young  wife  amounted  well- 
nigh  to  affection.  Something  in  her  own  individuality 
seemed  to  convict  Rhoda  of  crime.  Yet  a  fatality 
sometimes  would  direct  the  steps  of  the  latter  to  the 
outskirts  of  Holmstoke  whenever  she  left  her  house 
for  any  other  purpose  than  her  daily  work ;  and  hence 
it  happened  that  their  next  encounter  was  out  of  doors. 
Rhoda  could  not  avoid  the  subject  which  had  so  myst? 
fied  her,  and  after  the  first  few  words  she  stammerea, 
•  I  hope  your — arm  is  well  again,  ma'am  ? '  She  had 
perceived  with  consternation  that  Gertrude  Lodge  carried 
her  left  arm  stiffly. 

*  No ;  it  is  not  quite  well.  Indeed  it  is  no  better 
at  all ;  it  is  rather  worse.  It  pains  me  dreadfully 
sometimes.* 

*  Perhaps  you  had  better  go  to  a  doctor,  ma'am.' 
She  replied  that  she  had  already  seen  a  doctor.     Her 

husband  had  insisted  upon  her  going  to  one.  But  the 
surgeon  had  not  seemed  to  understand  the  afflicted 
limb  at  all ;  he  had  told  her  to  bathe  it  in  hot  water, 

78 


i_-  THE  WITHERED  ARM 

and  she  had  bathed  it,  but  the  treatment  had  done  no 
good. 

'  Will  you  let  me  see  it  ? '  said  the  milkwoman. 

Mrs.  Lodge  pushed  up  her  sleeve  and  disclosed  the 
place,  which  was  a  few  inches  above  the  wrist.  As 
soon  as  Rhoda  Brook  saw  it,  she  could  hardly  preserve 
her  composure.  There  was  nothing  of  the  nature  of  a 
wound,  but  the  arm  at  that  point  had  a  shrivelled  look, 
and  the  outline  of  the  four  fingers  appeared  more  dis- 
tinct than  at  the  former  time.  Moreover,  she  fancied 
that  they  were  imprinted  in  precisely  the  relative  posi- 
tion of  her  clutch  upon  the  arm  in  the  trance  ;  the  first 
finger  towards  Gertrude's  wrist,  and  the  fourth  towards 
her  elbow. 

What  the  impress  resembled  seemed  to  have  struck 
Gertrude  herself  since  their  last  meeting.  '  It  looks 
almost  like  finger-marks,'  she  said ;  adding  with  a  faint 
laugh,  *  my  husband  says  it  is  as  if  some  witch,  or  the 
devil  himself,  had  taken  hold  of  me  there,  and  blasted 
the  flesh.' 

Rhoda  shivered.  '  That's  fancy,'  she  said  hurriedly. 
*  I  wouldn't  mind  it,  if  I  were  you.' 

'I  shouldn't  so  much  mind  it,*  said  the  younger, 
with  hesitation,  *  if — if  I  hadn't  a  notion  that  it  makes 
my  husband  —  dislike  me  —  no,  love  me  less.  Men 
think  so  much  of  personal  appearance.' 

*  Some  do — he  for  one.' 

*  Yes ;  and  he  was  very  proud  of  mine,  at  first.' 

*  Keep  your  arm  covered  from  his  sight.' 

« Ah — he  knows  the  disfigurement  is  there  1 '  She 
tried  to  hide  the  tears  that  filled  her  eyes. 

•Well,  ma'am,  I  earnestly  hope  it  will  go  away 
soon.' 

And  sr,  the  milkwoman's  mind  was  chained  anew 
to  the  subject  by  a  horrid  sort  of  spell  as  she  returned 
home.  I'he  sense  of  having  been  guilty  of  an  act  of 
malignity  increased,  affect  as  she  might  to  ridicule  her 

79 


WESSEX   TALES 

superstition.  In  her  secret  heart  Rhoda  did  not  alto- 
gether object  to  a  slight  diminution  of  her  successor's 
beauty,  by  whatever  means  it  had  come  about;  but 
she  did  not  wish  to  inflict  upon  her  physical  pain.  For 
though  this  pretty  young  woman  had  rendered  impossible 
any  reparation  which  Lodge  might  have  made  Rhoda 
for  his  past  conduct,  everything  like  resentment  at  the 
unconscious  usurpation  had  quite  passed  away  from  the 
elder's  mind. 

If  the  sweet  and  kindly  Gertrude  Lodge  only  knew 
of  the  scene  in  the  bed-chamber,  what  would  she  think  ? 
Not  to  inforrn  her  of  it  seemed  treachery  in  the  presence 
of  her  friendliness ;  but  tell  she  could  not  of  her  own 
accord — neither  could  she  devise  a  remedy. 

She  mused  upon  the  matter  the  greater  part  of  the 
night;  and  the  next  day,  after  the  morning  milking, 
set  out  to  obtain  another  glimpse  of  Gertrude  Lodge  if 
she  could,  being  held  to  her  by  a  gruesome  fascination. 
By  watching  the  house  from  a  distance  the  milkmaid 
was  presently  able  to  discern  the  farmer's  wife  in  a  ride 
she  was  taking  alone — probably  to  join  her  husband 
in  some  distant  field.  Mrs.  Lodge  perceived  her,  and 
cantered  in  her  direction. 

'  Good  morning,  Rhoda !  *  Gertrude  said,  when  she 
had  come  up.     '  I  was  going  to  call.' 

Rhoda  noticed  that  Mrs.  Lodge  held  the  reins  with 
some  difficulty. 

*  I  hope — the  bad  arm,*  said  Rhoda. 

'They  tell  me  there  is  possibly  one  way  by  which 
I  might  be  able  to  find  out  the  cause,  and  so  perhaps 
the  cure,  of  it,'  replied  the  other  anxiously.  *  It  is  by 
going  to  some  clever  man  over  in  Egdon  Heath.  They 
did  not  know  if  he  was  still  alive — and  I  cannot  re- 
member his  name  at  this  moment ;  but  they  said  that 
you  knew  more  of  his  movements  than  anybody  else 
hereabout,  and  could  tell  me  if  he  were  still  to  be  con- 
sulted.   Dear  me — what  was  his  name  ?    But  you  know.* 

80 


THE  WITHERED   ARM 

*Not  Conjuror  Trendle?'  said  her  thin  companion, 
turning  pale. 

'  Trendle — yes.     Is  he  alive  ? ' 

'  I  believe  so,'  said  Rhoda,  with  reluctance. 

'  Why  do  you  call  him  conjuror  ? ' 

'Well — they  say — they  used  to  say  he  was  a  -he 
had  powers  other  folks  have  not.' 

'  O,  how  could  my  people  be  so  superstitious  as  to 
recommend  a  man  of  that  sort !  I  thought  they  meant 
some  medical  man.     I  shall  think  no  more  of  him.' 

Rhoda  looked  relieved,  and  Mrs.  Lodge  rode  on. 
The  milkwoman  had  inwardly  seen,  from  the  moment 
she  heard  of  her  having  been  mentioned  as  a  reference 
for  this  man,  that  there  must  exist  a  sarcastic  feeling 
amonn;  the  work-folk  that  a  sorceress  would  know  the 
whereabouts  of  the  exorcist.  They  suspected  her,  then. 
A  short  time  ago  this  would  have  given  no  concern  to 
a  woman  of  her  common-sense.  But  she  had  a  haunt- 
ing reason  to  be  superstitious  now;  and  she  had  been 
seized  with  sudden  dread  that  this  Conjuror  Trendle 
might  name  her  as  the  malignant  influence  which  was 
blasting  the  fair  person  of  Gertrude,  and  so  lead  her 
friend  to  hate  her  for  ever,  and  to  treat  her  as  some 
fiend  in  human  shape. 

But  all  was  not  over.  Two  days  after,  a  shadow 
intruded  into  the  window-pattern  thrown  on  Rhoda 
Brook's  floor  by  the  afternoon  sun.  The  woman  opened 
the  door  at  once,  almost  breathlessly. 

*  Are  you  alone  ? '  said  Gertrude.  She  seemed  to  be 
no  less  harassed  and  anxious  than  Brook  herself. 

*Yes,'  said  Rhoda, 

•The  place  on  my  arm  seems  worse,  and  troubles 
me ! '  the  young  farmer's  wife  went  on.  *  It  is  so 
mysterious  1  I  do  hope  it  will  not  be  an  incurable 
wound.  I  have  again  been  thinking  of  what  they 
said  about  Conjuror  Trendle.  I  don't  really  believe 
in  such  men,  but  I  should  not  mind  just  visiting  him, 

8i  f 


WESSEX  TALES 

from  curiosity — though  on  no  account  must  my  husband 
know.     Is  it  far  to  where  he  lives  ?  * 

*  Yes — five  miles,'  said  Rhoda  backwardly.  '  In  the 
heart  of  Egdon,' 

*  Well,  I  should  have  to  walk.  Could  not  you  go 
with  me  to  show  me  the  way — say  to-morrow  after- 
noon ? ' 

*  O,  not  I — that  is,'  the  milkwoman  murmured, 
with  a  start  of  dismay.  Again  the  dread  seized  her 
that  something  to  do  with  her  fierce  act  in  the  dream 
might  be  revealed,  and  her  character  in  the  eyes  of 
the  most  useful  friend  she  had  ever  had  be  ruined 
irretrievably. 

Mrs.  Lodge  urged,  and  Rhoda  finally  assented,  though 
with  much  misgiving.  Sad  as  the  journey  would  be  to 
her,  she  could  not  conscientiously  stand  in  the  way  of 
a  possible  remedy  for  her  patron's  strange  affliction. 
It  was  agreed  that,  to  escape  suspicion  of  their  mystic 
intent,  they  should  meet  at  the  edge  of  the  heath  at  the 
corner  of  a  plantation  which  was  visible  from  the  spot 
where  they  now  stood. 


f> 


CONJUROR  TRENDLE 


Jl)Y  the  next  afternoon  Rhoda  would  have  done  any- 
thing to  escape  this  inquiry.  But  she  had  promised  to 
go.  Moreover,  there  was  a  horrid  fascination  at  times 
in  becoming  instrumental  in  throwing  such  possible  light 
on  her  own  character  as  would  reveal  her  to  be  some- 
thing greater  in  the  occult  world  than  she  had  ever  her- 
self suspected. 

She  started  just  before  the  time  of  day  mentioned 
between  them,  and  half-an-hour's  brisk  walking  brought 
her  to  the  south-eastern  extension  of  the  Egdon  tract  of 
country,  where  the  fir  plantation  was.  A  slight  figure, 
cloaked  and  veiled,  was  already  there.  Rhoda  recog- 
nized, almost  with  a  shudder,  that  Mrs.  Lodge  bore  her 
left  arm  in  a  sling. 

They  hardly  spoke  to  each  other,  and  immediately 
set  out  on  their  climb  into  the  interior  of  this  solemn 
country,  which  stood  high  above  the  rich  alluvial  soil 
they  had  left  half-an-hour  before.  It  was  a  long  walk ; 
thick  clouds  made  the  atmosphere  dark,  though  it  was 
as  yet  only  early  afternoon ;  and  the  wind  howled 
dismally  over  the  hills  of  the  heath — not  improbably 
the  same  heath  which  had  witnessed  the  agony  of  the 

83 


WESSEX  TALES 

Wessex  King  Ina,  presented  to  after-ages  as  Lear. 
Gertrude  Lodge  talked  most,  Rhoda  replying  with 
monosyllabic  preoccupation.  She  had  a  strange  dislike 
to  walking  on  the  side  of  her  companion  where  hung 
the  afflicted  arm,  moving  round  to  the  other  when  in- 
advertently near  it.  Much  heather  had  been  brushed 
by  their  feet  when  they  descended  upon  a  cart-track, 
beside  which  stood  the  house  of  the  man  they  sought. 

He  did  not  profess  his  remedial  practices  openly, 
or  care  anything  about  their  continuance,  his  direct 
interests  being  those  of  a  dealer  in  furze,  turf,  *  sharp 
sand,*  and  other  local  products.  Indeed,  he  affected 
not  to  beUeve  largely  in  his  own  powers,  and  when 
warts  that  had  been  shown  him  for  cure  miraculously 
disappeared — which  it  must  be  owned  they  infallibly 
did — he  would  say  lightly,  *0,  I  only  drink  a  glass  of 
grog  upon  'em — perhaps  it's  all  chance,'  and  immedi- 
ately turn  the  subject. 

He  was  at  home  when  they  arrived,  having  in  fact 
seen  them  descending  into  his  valley.  He  was  a  gray- 
bearded  man,  with  a  reddish  face,  and  he  looked 
singularly  at  Rhoda  the  first  moment  he  beheld  her. 
Mrs.  Lodge  told  him  her  errand ;  and  then  with  words 
of  self-disparagement  he  examined  her  arm. 

'Medicine  can't  cure  it,'  he  said  promptly.  *'Tis 
the  work  of  an  enemy.' 

Rhoda  shrank  into  herself,  and  drew  back. 

*  An  enemy  ?     What  enemy  ? '  asked  Mrs.  Lodge. 

He  shook  his  head.  'That's  best  known  to  your- 
self,' he  said.  '  If  you  like,  I  can  show  the  person  to 
you,  though  I  shall  not  myself  know  who  it  is.  I  can 
do  no  more ;  and  don't  wish  to  do  that.' 

She  pressed  him;  on  which  he  told  Rhoda  to  wait 
outside  where  she  stood,  and  took  Mrs.  Lodge  into  the 
room.  It  opened  immediately  from  the  door ;  and,  as 
the  latter  remained  ajar,  Rhoda  Brook  could  see  the 
proceedings  without  taking  part  in  them.     He  brought 

84 


THE  WITHERED  ARM 

a  tumbler  from  the  dresser,  nearly  filled  it  with  water, 
and  fetching  an  egg,  prepared  it  in  some  private  way; 
after  which  he  broke  it  on  the  edge  of  the  glass,  so 
that  the  white  went  in  and  the  yolk  remained.  As  it 
was  getting  gloomy,  he  took  the  glass  and  its  contents 
to  the  window,  and  told  Gertrude  to  watch  them 
closely.  They  leant  over  the  table  together,  and  the 
milkwoman  could  see  the  opaline  hue  of  the  egg-fluid 
changing  form  as  it  sank  in  the  water,  but  she  was  not 
near  enough  to  define  the  shape  that  it  assumed. 

'  Do  you  catch  the  Hkeness  of  any  face  or  figure 
as  you  look?'  demanded  the  conjuror  of  the  young 
woman. 

She  murmured  a  reply,  in  tones  so  low  as  to  be 
inaudible  to  Rhoda,  and  continued  to  gaze  intently 
into  the  glass.  Rhoda  turned,  and  walked  a  few  steps 
away. 

When  Mrs.  Lodge  came  out,  and  her  face  was  met 
by  the  light,  it  appeared  exceedingly  pale — as  pale  as 
Rhoda's — against  the  sad  dun  shades  of  the  upland's 
garniture.  Trendle  shut  the  door  behind  her,  and  they 
at  once  started  homeward  together.  But  Rhoda  per- 
ceived that  her  companion  had  quite  changed. 

*  Did  he  charge  much  ? '  she  asked  tentatively. 

«0  no — nothing.  He  would  not  take  a  farthing,* 
said  Gertrude. 

'  And  what  did  you  see  ? '  inquired  Rhoda. 

*  Nothing  I — care  to  speak  of.'  The  constraint  in 
her  manner  was  remarkable ;  her  face  was  so  rigid  as  to 
wear  an  oldened  aspect,  faintly  suggestive  of  the  face 
in  Rhoda's  bed-chamber. 

'  Was  it  you  who  first  proposed  coming  here  ? '  Mrs. 
Lodge  suddenly  inquired,  after  a  long  pause.  '  How 
very  odd,  if  you  did ! ' 

*  No.  But  I  am  not  sorry  we  have  come,  all  things 
considered,'  she  replied.  For  the  first  time  a  sense 
of  triumph  possessed  her,  and  she  did  not  altogether 

8$ 


WESSEX  TALES 

deplore  that  the  young  thing  at  her  side  should  learn 
that  their  lives  had  been  antagonized  by  other  influences 
than  their  own. 

The  subject  was  no  more  alluded  to  during  the  long 
and  dreary  walk  home.  But  in  some  way  or  other  a 
story  was  whispered  about  the  many-dairied  lowland 
that  winter  that  Mrs.  Lodge's  gradual  loss  of  the  use 
of  her  left  arm  was  owing  to  her  being  '  overlooked ' 
by  Rhoda  Brook.  The  latter  kept  her  own  counsel 
about  the  incubus,  but  her  face  grew  sadder  and  thinner ; 
and  in  the  spring  she  and  her  boy  disappeared  from  the 
neighbourhood  of  Holmstoke. 


A  SECOND  ATTEMPT 

VI 

riALF-a-dozen  years  passed  away,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Lodge's  married  experience  sank  into  prosiness,  and 
worse.  The  farmer  was  usually  gloomy  and  silent :  the 
woman  whom  he  had  wooed  for  her  grace  and  beauty 
was  contorted  and  disfigured  in  the  left  limb ;  moreover, 
she  had  brought  him  no  child,  which  rendered  it  likely 
that  he  would  be  the  last  of  a  family  who  had  occupied 
that  valley  for  some  two  hundred  years.  He  thought 
of  Rhoda  Brook  and  her  son ;  and  feared  this  might  be 
a  judgment  from  heaven  upon  him. 

The  once  blithe-hearted  and  enlightened  Gertrude 
was  changing  into  an  irritable,  superstitious  woman, 
whose  whole  time  was  given  to  experimenting  upon 
her  ailment  with  every  quack  remedy  she  came  across. 
She  was  honesdy  attached  to  her  husband,  and  was 
ever  secretly  hoping  against  hope  to  win  back  his 
heart  again  by  regaining  some  at  least  of  her  personal 
beauty.  Hence  it  arose  that  her  closet  was  lined  with 
bottles,  packets,  and  ointment-pots  of  every  description 
— nay,  bunches  of  mystic  herbs,  charms,  and  books  of 
necromancy,  which  in  her  schoolgirl  time  she  would 
have  ridiculed  as  folly. 

o  87 


WESSEX  TALES 

'Damned  if  you  won't  poison  yourself  with  these 
apothecary  messes  and  witch  mixtures  some  time  or 
other,'  said  her  husband,  when  his  eye  chanced  to  fall 
upon  the  multitudinous  array. 

She  did  not  reply,  but  turned  her  sad,  soft  glance 
upon  him  in  such  heart-swollen  reproach  that  he  looked 
sorry  for  his  words,  and  added,  '  I  only  meant  it  for 
your  good,  you  know,  Gertrude.' 

*  I'll  clear  out  the  whole  lot,  and  destroy  them,*  said 
she  huskily,  '  and  try  such  remedies  no  more ! ' 

•You  want  somebody  to  cheer  you,'  he  observed. 
'  I  once  thought  of  adopting  a  boy ;  but  he  is  too  old 
now.     And  he  is  gone  away  I  don't  know  where.' 

She  guessed  to  whom  he  alluded ;  for  Rhoda  Brook's 
story  had  in  the  course  of  years  become  known  to 
her;  though  not  a  word  had  ever  passed  between  her 
husband  and  herself  on  the  subject.  Neither  had  she 
ever  spoken  to  him  of  her  visit  to  Conjuror  Trendle, 
and  of  what  was  revealed  to  her,  or  she  thought  was 
revealed  to  her,  by  that  solitary  heath-man. 

She  was  now  five-and-twenty ;  but  she  seemed  older. 
'  Six  years  of  marriage,  and  only  a  few  months  of  love,' 
she  sometimes  whispered  to  herself.  And  then  she 
thought  of  the  apparent  cause,  and  said,  with  a  tragic 
glance  at  her  withering  limb,  '  If  I  could  only  again  be 
as  I  was  when  he  first  saw  me  ! ' 

She  obediently  destroyed  her  nostr ams  and  charms ; 
but  there  remained  a  hankering  wish  to  try  something 
else — some  other  sort  of  cure  altor:ether.  She  had 
never  revisited  Trendle  since  she  had  been  conducted 
to  the  house  of  the  solitary  by  Rhoda  against  her  will ; 
but  it  now  suddenly  occurred  to  Gertrude  that  she 
would,  in  a  last  desperate  effort  at  deliverance  from 
this  seeming  curse,  again  seek  out  the  man,  if  he  yet 
lived.  He  was  entitled  to  a  certain  credence,  for  the 
indistinct  form  he  had  raised  in  the  glass  had  un- 
doubtedly resembled  the  only  woman  in  the  world  who 

8S 


*---  THE  WITHERED  ARM 

— as  she  now  knew,  though  not  then — could  have  a 
reason  for  bearing  her  ill-will.    The  visit  should  be  paid. 

This  time  she  went  alone,  though  she  nearly  got 
lost  on  the  heath,  and  roamed  a  considerable  distance 
out  of  her  way.  Trendle's  house  was  reached  at  last, 
however:  he  was  not  indoors,  and  instead  of  waiting 
at  the  cottage,  she  went  to  where  his  bent  figure  was 
pointed  out  to  her  at  work  a  long  way  off.  Trendle 
remembered  her,  and  laying  down  the  handful  of 
furze-roots  which  he  was  gathering  and  throwing  into 
a  heap,  he  offered  to  accompany  her  in  her  homeward 
direction,  as  the  distance  was  considerable  and  the  days 
were  short.  So  they  walked  together,  his  head  bowed 
nearly  to  the  earth,  and  his  form  of  a  colour  with  it. 

'  You  can  send  away  warts  and  other  excrescences, 
I  know,'  she  said ;  '  why  can't  you  send  away  this  ? ' 
And  the  arm  was  uncovered. 

*  You  think  too  much  of  my  powers  ! '  said  Trendle ; 
*  and  I  am  old  and  weak  now,  too.  No,  no ;  it  is  too 
much  for  me  to  atttempt  in  my  own  person.  What 
have  ye  tried?' 

She  named  to  him  some  of  the  hundred  medica- 
ments and  counterspells  which  she  had  adopted  from 
time  to  time.     He  shook  his  head. 

'  Some  were  good  enough,'  he  said  approvingly ; 
*but  not  many  of  them  for  such  as  this.  This  is  of 
the  nature  of  a  blight,  not  of  the  nature  of  a  wound ; 
and  if  you  ever  do  throw  it  off,  it  will  be  all  at  once.' 

'  If  I  only  could  ! ' 

'  There  is  only  one  chance  of  doing  it  known  to  me. 
It  has  never  failed  in  kindred  afflictions, — that  I  can 
declare.  But  it  is  hard  to  carry  out,  and  especially  for 
a  woman.' 

'  Tell  me ! '  said  she. 

'  You  must  touch  with  the  limb  the  neck  of  a  man 
who's  been  hanged.' 

She  started  a  little  at  the  image  he  had  raised, 

89 


WESSEX  TALES 

'  Before  he's  cold — just  after  he's  cut  down,'  con- 
tinued the  conjuror  impassively, 

*  How  can  that  do  good  ?  * 

'  It  will  turn  the  blood  and  change  the  constitution, 
But,  as  I  say,  to  do  it  is  hard.  You  must  get  into  jail, 
and  wait  for  him  when  he's  brought  off  the  gallows.  Ix)ts 
have  done  it,  though  perhaps  not  such  pretty  women 
as  you.  I  used  to  send  dozens  for  skin  complaints. 
But  that  was  in  former  times.  The  last  I  sent  was 
in  '13 — near  twenty  years  ago.* 

He  had  no  more  to  tell  her ;  and,  when  he  had  put 
her  into  a  straight  track  homeward,  turned  and  left  her, 
refusing  all  money  as  at  first 


A  RIDE 


VII 


The  communication  sank  deep  into  Gertrude's  mind. 
Her  nature  was  rather  a  timid  one ;  and  probably  of  all 
remedies  that  the  white  wizard  could  have  suggested 
there  was  not  one  which  would  have  filled  her  with  so 
much  aversion  as  this,  not  to  speak  of  the  immense 
obstacles  in  the  way  of  its  adoption. 

Casterbridge,  the  county-town,  was  a  dozen  or  fifteen 
miles  off;  and  though  in  those  days,  when  men  were 
executed  for  horse-stealing,  arson,  and  burglary,  an 
assize  seldom  passed  without  a  hanging,  it  was  not 
likely  that  she  could  get  access  to  the  body  of  the 
criminal  unaided.  And  the  fear  of  her  husband's  anger 
made  her  reluctant  to  breathe  a  word  of  Trendle's 
suggestion  to  him  or  to  anybody  about  him. 

She  did  nothing  for  months,  and  patiently  bore  her 
disfigurement  as  before.  But  her  woman's  nature, 
craving  for  renewed  love,  through  the  medium  of 
renewed  beauty  (she  was  but  twenty-five),  was  ever 
stimulating  her  to  try  what,  at  any  rate,  could  hardly 
do  her  any  harm.  '  What  came  by  a  spell  will  go  by 
a  spell  surely,'  she  would  say.  Whenever  her  imagi- 
nation pictured  the  act  she  shrank  in  terror  from  the 

9» 


WESSEX  TALES 

possibility  of  it :  then  the  words  of  the  conjuror,  '  It 
will  turn  your  blood,'  were  seen  to  be  capable  of  a  scien- 
tific no  lessthan  a  ghastly  interpretation ;  the  mastering 
desire  returned,  and  urged  her  on  again. 

There  was  at  this  time  but  one  county  paper,  and 
that  her  husband  only  occasionally  borrowed.  But 
old-fashioned  days  had  old-fashioned  means,  and  news 
was  extensively  conveyed  by  word  of  mouth  from  market 
to  market,  or  from  fair  to  fair,  so  that,  whenever  such 
an  event  as  an  execution  was  about  to  take  place,  few 
within  a  radius  of  twenty  miles  were  ignorant  of  the 
coming  sight ;  and,  so  far  as  Holmstoke  was  concerned, 
some  enthusiasts  had  been  known  to  walk  all  the  way  to 
Casterbridge  and  back  in  one  day,  solely  to  witness  the 
spectacle.  The  next  assizes  were  in  March ;  and  when 
Gertrude  Lodge  heard  that  they  had  been  held,  she  in- 
quired stealthily  at  the  inn  as  to  the  result,  as  soon  as 
she  could  find  opportunity. 

She  was,  however,  too  late.  The  time  at  which  the 
sentences  were  to  be  carried  out  had  arrived,  and  to 
make  the  journey  and  obtain  admission  at  such  short 
notice  required  at  least  her  husband's  assistance.  She 
dared  not  tell  him,  for  she  had  found  by  delicate  ex- 
periment that  these  smouldering  village  beliefs  made 
him  furious  if  mentioned,  partly  because  he  half  enter- 
tained them  himself.  It  was  therefore  necessary  to 
wait  for  another  opportunity. 

Her  determination  received  a  fillip  from  learning  that 
two  epileptic  children  had  attended  from  this  very 
village  of  Holmstoke  many  years  before  with  beneficial 
results,  though  the  experiment  had  been  strongly  con- 
demned by  the  neighbouring  clergy.  April,  May,  June, 
passed ;  and  it  is  no  overstatement  to  say  that  by  the 
end  of  the  last-named  month  Gertrude  well-nigh  longed 
for  the  death  of  a  fellow-creature.  Instead  of  her  formal 
prayers  each  night,  her  unconscious  prayer  was,  *  O  Lord, 
hang  some  guilty  or  innocent  person  soon  I ' 

92 


'^ 


4^-.-  THE  WITHERED  ARM 

This  time  she  made  earlier  inquiries,  and  was  alto- 
gether more  systematic  in  her  proceedings.  Moreover, 
the  season  was  summer,  between  the  haymaking  and 
the  harvest,  and  in  the  leisure  thus  afforded  him  her  hus- 
band had  been  holiday-taking  away  from  home. 

The  assizes  were  in  July,  and  she  went  to  the  inn  as 
before.  There  was  to  be  one  execution — only  one — for 
arson. 

Her  greatest  problem  was  not  how  to  get  to  Caster- 
bridge,  but  what  means  she  should  adopt  for  obtaining 
admission  to  the  jail.  Though  access  for  such  purposes 
had  formerly  never  been  denied,  the  custom  had  fallen 
into  desuetude ;  and  in  contemplating  her  possible  diffi- 
culties, she  was  again  almost  driven  to  fall  back  upon 
her  husband.  But,  on  sounding  him  about  the  assizes, 
he  was  so  uncommunicative,  so  more  than  usually  cold, 
that  she  did  not  proceed,  and  decided  that  whatever  she 
did  she  would  do  alone. 

Fortune,  obdurate  hitherto,  showed  her  unexpected 
favour.  On  the  Thursday  before  the  Saturday  fixed  for 
the  execution,  Lodge  remarked  to  her  that  he  was  going 
away  from  home  for  another  day  or  two  on  business 
at  a  fair,  and  that  he  was  sorry  he  could  not  take  her 
with  him. 

She  exhibited  on  this  occasion  so  much  readiness  to 
stay  at  home  that  he  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  Time 
had  been  when  she  would  have  shown  deep  disappoint- 
ment at  the  loss  of  such  a  jaunt.  However,  he  lapsed 
into  his  usual  taciturnity,  and  on  the  day  named  left 
Holmstoke. 

It  was  now  her  turn.  She  at  first  had  thought  of 
driving,  but  on  reflection  held  that  driving  would  not 
do,  since  it  would  necessitate  her  keeping  to  the  turn- 
pike-road,  and  so  increase  by  tenfold  the  risk  of  her 
ghastly  errand  being  found  out.  She  decided  to  ride, 
and  avoid  the  beaten  track,  notwithstanding  that  in 
her   husband's    stables    there   was    no   animal   just   at 

93 


WESSEX  TALES 

present  which  by  any  stretch  of  imagination  could  be 
considered  a  lady's  mount,  in  spite  of  his  promise  be- 
fore marriage  to  always  keep  a  mare  for  her.  He  had, 
however,  many  cart-horses,  fine  ones  of  their  kind; 
and  among  the  rest  was  a  serviceable  creature,  an 
equine  Amazon,  with  a  back  as  broad  as  a  sofa,  on 
which  Gertrude  had  occasionally  taken  an  airing  when 
unwell.     This  horse  she  chose. 

On  Friday  afternoon  one  of  the  men  brought  it 
round.  She  was  dressed,  and  before  going  down  looked 
at  her  shrivelled  arm.  *  Ah ! '  she  said  to  it,  •  if  it  had 
not  been  for  you  this  terrible  ordeal  would  have  been 
saved  me !  * 

When  strapping  up  the  bundle  in  which  she  carried 
a  few  articles  of  clothing,  she  took  occasion  to  say  to  the 
servant,  '  I  take  these  in  case  I  should  not  get  back  to- 
night from  the  person  I  am  going  to  visit.  Don't  be 
alarmed  if  I  am  not  in  by  ten,  and  close  up  the  house 
as  usual.  I  shall  be  at  home  to-morrow  for  certain.' 
She  meant  then  to  privately  tell  her  husband :  the  deed 
accomplished  was  not  like  the  deed  projected.  He 
would  almost  certainly  forgive  her. 

And  then  the  pretty  palpitating  Gertrude  Lodge 
went  from  her  husband's  homestead ;  but  though  her 
goal  was  Casterbridge  she  did  not  take  the  direct  route 
thither  through  Stickleford.  Her  cunning  course  at 
first  was  in  precisely  the  opposite  direction.  As  soon 
as  she  was  out  of  sight,  however,  she  turned  to  the  left, 
by  a  road  which  led  into  Egdon,  and  on  entering  the 
heath  wheeled  round,  and  set  out  in  the  true  course, 
due  westerly.  A  more  private  way  down  the  county 
could  not  be  imagined;  and  as  to  direction,  she  had 
merely  to  keep  her  horse's  head  to  a  point  a  little  to 
the  right  of  the  sun.  She  knew  that  she  would  light 
upon  a  furze-cutter  or  cottager  of  some  sort  from  time 
to  time,  from  whom  she  might  correct  her  bearing. 

Though  the  date  was  comparatively  recent,  Egdon 

94 


""  THE  WITHERED  ARM 

was  much  less  fragmentary  in  character  than  now. 
The  attempts — successful  and  otherwise — at  cultivation 
on  the  lower  slopes,  which  intrude  and  break  up  the 
original  heath  into  small  detached  heaths,  had  not  been 
carried  far;  Enclosure  Acts  had  not  taken  effect,  and 
the  banks  and  fences  which  now  exclude  the  cattle 
of  those  villagers  who  formerly  enjoyed  rights  of 
commonage  thereon,  and  the  carts  of  those  who  had 
turbary  privileges  which  kept  them  in  firing  all  the  year 
round,  were  not  erected.  Gertrude,  therefore,  rode 
along  with  no  other  obstacles  than  the  prickly  furze- 
bushes,  the  mats  of  heather,  the  white  water-courses, 
and  the  natural  steeps  and  declivities  of  the  ground. 

Her  horse  was  sure,  if  heavy-footed  and  slow,  and 
though  a  draught  animal,  was  easy- paced ;  had  it  been 
otherwise,  she  was  not  a  woman  who  could  have 
ventured  to  ride  over  such  a  bit  of  country  with  a 
half-dead  arm.  It  was  therefore  nearly  eight  o'clock 
when  she  drew  rein  to  breathe  the  mare  on  the  last 
outlying  high  point  of  heath-land  towards  Casterbridge, 
previous  to  leaving  Egdon  for  the  cultivated  valleys. 

She  halted  before  a  pool  called  Rushy-pond,  flanked 
by  the  ends  of  two  hedges ;  a  railing  ran  through  the 
centre  of  the  pond,  dividing  it  in  half  Over  the  railing 
she  saw  the  low  green  country ;  over  the  green  trees  the 
roofs  of  the  town ;  over  the  roofs  a  white  flat  facade,  de- 
noting the  entrance  to  the  county  jail.  On  the  roof  of 
this  front  specks  were  moving  about ;  they  seemed  to  be 
workmen  erecting  something.  Her  flesh  crept.  She 
descended  slowly,  and  was  soon  amid  corn-fields  and 
pastures.  In  another  half-hour,  when  it  was  almost 
dusk,  Gertrude  reached  the  White  Hart,  the  first  inn 
of  the  town  on  that  side. 

Little  surprise  was  excited  by  her  arrival;  farmers' 
wives  rode  on  horseback  then  more  than  they  do  now ; 
though,  for  that  matter,  Mrs.  Lodge  was  not  imagined 
to  be  a  wife  at  aU ;  the  innkeeper  supposed  her  some 

95 


WESSEX  TALES 

harum-skarum  young  woman  who  had  come  to  attend 
'  hang-fair '  next  day.  Neither  her  husband  nor  herself 
ever  dealt  in  Casterbridge  market,  so  that  she  was 
unknown.  While  dismounting  she  beheld  a  crowd  of 
boys  standing  at  the  door  of  a  harness-maker's  shop 
just  above  the  inn,  looking  inside  it  with  deep  interest. 

'  What  is  going  on  there  ? '  she  asked  of  the  ostler. 

*  Making  the  rope  for  to-morrow.* 

She  throbbed  responsively,  and  contracted  her  arm. 

'  'Tis  sold  by  the  inch  afterwards,'  the  man  con- 
tinued. '  I  could  get  you  a  bit,  miss,  for  nothing,  if 
you'd  like  ?  * 

She  hastily  repudiated  any  such  wish,  all  the  more 
from  a  curious  creeping  feeling  that  the  condemned 
wretch's  destiny  was  becoming  interwoven  with  her 
own;  and  having  engaged  a  room  for  the  night,  sat 
down  to  think. 

Up  to  this  time  she  had  formed  but  the  vaguest 
notions  about  her  means  of  obtaining  access  to  the 
prison.  The  words  of  the  cunning-man  returned  to 
her  mind.  He  had  implied  that  she  should  use  her 
beauty,  impaired  though  it  was,  as  a  pass-key.  In  her 
inexperience  she  knew  little  about  jail  functionaries; 
she  had  heard  of  a  high-sheriff  and  an  under-sheriff, 
but  dimly  only.  She  knew,  however,  that  there  must 
be  a  hangman,  and  to  the  hangman  she  determined  to 
apply. 


A  WATER-SIDE  HERMIT 


VIII 


At  this  date,  and  for  several  years  after,  there  was  a 
hangman  to  almost  every  jail.  Gertrude  found,  on 
inquiry,  that  the  Casterbridge  official  dwelt  in  a  lonely 
cottage  by  a  deep  slow  river  flowing  under  the  cliflf  on 
which  the  prison  buildings  were  situate — the  stream 
being  the  self-same  one,  though  she  did  not  know  it, 
which  watered  the  Stickleford  and  Holmstoke  meads 
lower  down  in  its  course. 

Having  changed  her  dress,  and  before  she  had  eaten 
or  drunk — for  she  could  not  take  her  ease  till  she  had 
ascertained  some  particulars — Gertrude  pursued  her  way 
by  a  path  along  the  water-side  to  the  cottage  indicated. 
Passing  thus  the  outskirts  of  the  jail,  she  discerned  on 
the  level  roof  over  the  gateway  three  rectangular  lines 
against  the  sky,  where  the  specks  had  been  moving  in 
her  distant  view ;  she  recognized  what  the  erection  was, 
and  passed  quickly  on.  Another  hundred  yards  brought 
her  to  the  executioner's  house,  which  a  boy  pointed  out. 
It  stood  close  to  the  same  stream,  and  was  hard  by  a 
weir,  the  waters  of  which  emitted  a  steady  roar. 

While  she  stood  hesitating  the  door  opened,  and  an 
old  man  came  forth  shading  a  candle  with  one  hand. 

99  O 


WESSEX  TALES 

Locking  the  door  on  the  outside,  he  turned  to  a  flight 
of  wooden  steps  fixed  against  the  end  of  the  cottage, 
and  began  to  ascend  them,  this  being  evidently  the 
staircase  to  his  bedroom.  Gertrude  hastened  forward, 
but  by  the  time  she  reached  the  foot  of  the  ladder  he 
was  at  the  top.  She  called  to  him  loudly  enough  to  be 
heard  above  the  roar  of  the  weir ;  he  looked  down  and 
said,  '  What  d'ye  want  here  ? ' 

*  To  speak  to  you  a  minute.' 

The  candle-light,  such  as  it  was,  fell  upon  her  im- 
ploring, pale,  upturned  face,  and  Davies  (as  the  hang- 
man was  called)  backed  down  the  ladder.  '  I  was  just 
going  to  bed,'  he  said ;  * "  Early  to  bed  and  early  to 
rise,"  but  I  don't  mind  stopping  a  minute  for  such  a 
one  as  you.  Come  into  house.'  He  reopened  the  door, 
and  preceded  her  to  the  room  within. 

The  implements  of  his  daily  work,  which  was  that 
of  a  jobbing  gardener,  stood  in  a  corner,  and  seeing 
probably  that  she  looked  rural,  he  said,  '  If  you  want 
me  to  undertake  country  work  I  can't  come,  for  I 
never  leave  Casterbridge  for  gentle  nor  simple — not 
I.  My  real  calling  is  officer  of  justice,'  he  added 
formally. 

*  Yes,  yes !     That's  it.     To-morrow !  * 

*  Ah  !  I  thought  so.  Well,  what's  the  matter  about 
that?  'Tis  no  use  to  come  here  about  the  knot — 
folks  do  come  continually,  but  I  tell  'era  one  knot 
is  as  merciful  as  another  if  ye  keep  it  under  the  ear. 
Is  the  unfortunate  man  a  relation ;  or,  I  should  say, 
perhaps '  (looking  at  her  dress)  '  a  person  who's  been 
in  your  employ  ? ' 

*  No.     What  time  is  the  execution  ?  * 

*  The  same  as  usual — twelve  o'clock,  or  as  soon  after 
as  the  London  mail-coach  gets  in.  We  always  wait  for 
that,  in  case  of  a  reprieve.' 

*  O — a  reprieve — I  hope  not  I  *  she  said  involun- 
tarily. 

98 


THE  WITHERED  ARM 

« Well, — hee,  hee ! — as  a  matter  of  business,  so  do 
I !  But  still,  if  ever  a  young  fellow  deserved  to  be  let 
off,  this  one  does ;  only  just  turned  eighteen,  and  only 
present  by  chance  when  the  rick  was  fired.  Howsom- 
ever,  there's  not  much  risk  of  it,  as  they  are  obliged 
to  make  an  example  of  him,  there  having  been  so  much 
destruction  of  property  that  way  lately.' 

'  I  mean,'  she  explained,  '  that  I  want  to  touch  him 
for  a  charm,  a  cure  of  an  affliction,  by  the  advice  of  a 
man  who  has  proved  the  virtue  of  the  remedy.* 

'  O  yes,  miss  !  Now  I  understand.  I've  had  such 
people  come  in  past  years.  But  it  didn't  strike  m.e 
that  you  looked  of  a  sort  to  require  blood-turning. 
What's  the  complaint?  The  wrong  kind  for  this,  I'll 
be  bound.' 

•My  arm.'  She  reluctantly  showed  the  withered 
skin. 

'  Ah ! — 'tis  all  a-scram  1 '  said  the  hangman,  examin- 
ing it. 

'  Yes,*  said  she. 

•  Well,'  he  continued,  with  interest,  •  that  is  the  class 
o'  subject,  I'm  bound  to  admit !  I  like  the  look  of 
the  place ;  it  is  truly  as  suitable  for  the  cure  as  any  I 
ever  saw.  'Twas  a  knowing-man  that  sent  'ee,  whoever 
he  was.' 

'  You  can  contrive  for  me  all  that's  necessary  ? '  she 
said  breathlessly. 

'  You  should  really  have  gone  to  the  governor  of  the 
jail,  and  your  doctor  with  'ee,  and  given  your  name  and 
address — that's  how  it  used  to  be  done,  if  I  recollect 
Still,  perhaps,  I  can  manage  it  for  a  trifling  fee.' 

'  O,  thank  you !  I  would  rather  do  it  this  way,  as 
I  should  like  it  kept  private.' 

•  Lover  not  to  know,  eh  ?  * 

•  No— husband.' 

•  Aha !    Very  well.    I'll  get  ee'  a  touch  of  the  corpse.* 
« Where  is  it  now  ? '  she  said,  shuddering. 

99 


WESSEX  TALES 

'  It  ? — he,  you  mean ;  he's  living  yet.  Just  inside 
that  little  small  winder  up  there  in  the  glum.'  He 
signified  the  jail  on  the  cliff  above. 

She  thought  of  her  husband  and  her  friends.  '  Yes, 
of  course,'  she  said ;  '  and  how  am  I  to  proceed  ? ' 

He  took  her  to  the  door.  '  Now,  do  you  be  waiting 
at  the  little  wicket  in  the  wall,  that  you'll  find  up  there 
in  the  lane,  not  later  than  one  o'clock.  I  will  open  it 
from  the  inside,  as  I  shan't  come  home  to  dinner  till 
he's  cut  down.  Good-night.  Be  punctual ;  and  if  you 
don't  want  anybody  to  know  'ee,  wear  a  veil.  Ah — 
once  I  had  such  a  daughter  as  you  !  * 

She  went  away,  and  climbed  the  path  above,  to 
assure  herself  that  she  would  be  able  to  find  the 
wicket  next  day.  Its  outline  was  soon  visible  to  her — 
a  narrow  opening  in  the  outer  wall  of  the  prison  pre- 
cincts. The  steep  was  so  great  that,  having  reached  the 
wicket,  she  stopped  a  moment  to  breathe ;  and,  looking 
back  upon  the  water-side  cot,  saw  the  hangman  again 
ascending  his  outdoor  staircase.  He  entered  the  loft 
or  chamber  to  which  it  led,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
extinguished  his  light. 

The  town  clock  struck  ten,  and  she  returned  to  the 
White  Hart  as  she  had  come. 


A  RENCOUNTER 

IX 

It  was  one  o'clock  on  Saturday.  Gertrude  Lodge, 
having  been  admitted  to  the  jail  as  above  described,  was 
sitting  in  a  waiting-room  within  the  second  gate,  which 
stood  under  a  classic  archway  of  ashlar,  then  compa- 
ratively modern,  and  bearing  the  inscription,  'covnty 
JAIL:  1793.'  This  had  been  the  facade  she  saw  from 
the  heath  the  day  before.  Near  at  hand  was  a  passage 
to  the  roof  on  which  the  gallows  stood. 

The  town  was  thronged,  and  the  market  suspended ; 
but  Gertrude  had  seen  scarcely  a  soul.  Having  kept 
her  room  till  the  hour  of  the  appointment,  she  had 
proceeded  to  the  spot  by  a  way  which  avoided  the  open 
space  below  the  cliff  where  the  spectators  had  gathered ; 
but  she  could,  even  now,  hear  the  multitudinous  babble 
of  their  voices,  out  of  which  rose  at  intervals  the  hoarse 
croak  of  a  single  voice  uttering  the  words,  '  Last  dying 
speech  and  confession ! '  There  had  been  no  reprieve, 
and  the  execution  was  over ;  but  the  crowd  still  waited 
to  see  the  body  taken  down. 

Soon  the  persistent  girl  heard  a  trampling  overhead, 
then  a  hand  beckoned  to  her,  and,  following  directions, 
she  went  out  and  crossed  the  inner  paved  court  beyond 

lOI 


WESSEX  TALES 

the  gatehouse,  her  knees  trembling  so  that  she  could 
scarcely  walk.  One  of  her  arms  was  out  of  its  sleeve, 
and  only  covered  by  her  shawl. 

On  the  spot  at  which  she  had  now  arrived  were  two 
trestles,  and  before  she  could  think  of  their  purpose  she 
heard  heavy  feet  descending  stairs  somewhere  at  her 
back.  Turn  her  head  she  would  not,  or  could  not, 
and,  rigid  in  this  position,  she  was  conscious  of  a  rough 
coffin  passing  her  shoulder,  borne  by  four  men.  It 
was  open,  and  in  it  lay  the  body  of  a  young  man,  wear- 
ing the  smockfrock  of  a  rustic,  and  fustian  breeches. 
The  copse  had  been  thrown  into  the  coffin  so  hastily 
that  the  skirt  of  the  smockfrock  was  hanging  over.  The 
burden  was  temporarily  deposited  on  the  trestles. 

By  this  time  the  young  woman's  state  was  such  that 
a  gray  mist  seemed  to  float  before  her  eyes,  on  account 
of  which,  and  the  veil  she  wore,  she  could  scarcely  dis- 
cern anything:  it  was  as  though  she  had  nearly  died, 
but  was  held  up  by  a  sort  of  galvanism. 

'  Now ! '  said  a  voice  close  at  hand,  and  she  was  just 
conscious  that  the  word  had  been  addressed  to  her. 

By  a  last  strenuous  effort  she  advanced,  at  the  same 
time  hearing  persons  approaching  behind  her.  She 
bared  her  poor  curst  arm ;  and  Davies,  uncovering  the 
face  of  the  corpse,  took  Gertrude's  hand,  and  held  it 
so  that  her  arm  lay  across  the  dead  man's  neck,  upon 
a  line  the  colour  of  an  unripe  blackberry,  which  sur- 
rounded it. 

Gertrude  shrieked :  '  the  turn  o'  the  blood,'  predicted 
by  the  conjuror,  had  taken  place.  But  at  that  moment 
a  second  shriek  rent  the  air  of  the  enclosure:  it  was 
not  Gertrude's,  and  its  effect  upon  her  was  to  make 
her  start  round. 

Immediately  behind  her  stood  Rhoda  Brook,  her 
fece  drawn,  and  her  eyes  red  with  weeping.  Behind 
Rhoda  stood  Gertrude's  own  husband ;  his  countenance 
lined,  his  eyes  dim,  but  without  a  tear. 

loa 


*-*  THE  WITHERED  ARM 

'  D — n  you  !   what  are  you  doing  here  ? '  he  said 

hoarsely. 

*  Hussy — to  come  between  us  and  our  child  now ! ' 
cried  Rhoda.  *This  is  the  meaning  of  what  Satai 
showed  me  in  the  vision  !  You  are  like  her  at  last ! 
And  clutching  the  bare  arm  of  the  younger  woman, 
she  pulled  her  unresistingly  back  against  the  wall. 
Immediately  Brook  had  loosened  her  hold  the  fragile 
young  Gertrude  sHd  down  against  the  feet  of  her  hus- 
band.    When  he  lifted  her  up  she  was  unconscious. 

The  mere  sight  of  the  twain  had  been  enough  to 
suggest  to  her  that  the  dead  young  man  was  Rhoda's 
son.  At  that  time  the  relatives  of  an  executed  convict 
had  the  privilege  of  claiming  the  body  for  burial,  if  they 
chose  to  do  so ;  and  it  was  for  this  purpose  that  Lodge 
was  awaiting  the  inquest  with  Rhoda.  He  had  been 
summoned  by  her  as  soon  as  the  young  man  was  taken 
in  the  crime,  and  at  different  times  since ;  and  he  had 
attended  in  court  during  the  trial.  This  was  the 
'  holiday '  he  had  been  indulging  in  of  late.  The  two 
wretched  parents  had  wished  to  avoid  exposure;  and 
hence  had  come  themselves  for  the  body,  a  waggon 
and  sheet  for  its  conveyance  and  covering  being  in 
waiting  outside. 

Gertrude's  case  was  so  serious  that  it  was  deemed 
advisable  to  call  to  her  the  surgeon  who  was  at  hand. 
She  was  taken  out  of  the  jail  into  the  town ;  but  she 
never  reached  home  alive.  Her  dehcate  vitaUty,  sapped 
perhaps  by  the  paralyzed  arm,  collapsed  under  the 
double  shock  that  followed  the  severe  strain,  physical 
and  mental,  to  which  she  had  subjected  herself  during 
the  previous  tvventy-four  hours.  Her  blood  had  been 
'  turned  '  indeed — too  far.  Her  death  took  place  in  the 
town  three  days  after. 

Her  husband  was  never  seen  in  Casterbridge  again ; 
once  only  in  the  old  market-place  at  Anglebury,  which 
he  had  so  much  frequented,  and  very  seldom  in  public 
H  103 


WESSEX  TALES 

anywhere.  Burdened  at  first  with  moodiness  and 
remorse,  he  eventually  changed  for  the  better,  and 
appeared  as  a  chastened  and  thoughtful  man.  Soon 
after  attending  the  funeral  of  his  poor  young  wife  he 
took  steps  towards  giving  up  the  farms  in  Holmstoke 
and  the  adjoining  parish,  and,  having  sold  every  head 
of  his  stock,  he  went  away  to  Port-Bredy,  at  the  other 
end  of  the  county,  living  there  in  solitary  lodgings  till 
his  death  two  years  later  of  a  painless  decline.  It  was 
then  found  that  he  had  bequeathed  the  whole  of  his 
not  inconsiderable  property  to  a  reformatory  for  boys, 
subject  to  the  payment  of  a  small  annuity  to  Rhoda 
Brook,  if  she  could  be  found  to  claim  it. 

For  some  time  she  could  not  be  found ;  but  even- 
tually she  reappeared  in  her  old  parish, — absolutely 
refusing,  however,  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the 
provision  made  for  her.  Her  monotonous  milking  at 
the  dairy  was  resumed,  and  followed  for  many  long 
years,  till  her  form  became  bent,  and  her  once  abundant 
dark  hair  white  and  worn  away  at  the  forehead — per- 
haps by  long  pressure  against  the  cows.  Here,  some- 
times, those  who  knew  her  experiences  would  stand  and 
observe  her,  and  wonder  what  sombre  thoughts  were 
beating  inside  that  impassive,  wrinkled  brow,  to  the 
rhythm  of  the  alternating  milk-streams. 

{*  Blackwood's  Magazine^  January  1S88.) 


J 


FBLL  O  W-  TO  WNSMEl^r 


FELLOW-  TO  WNSMEN 


1  HE  shepherd  on  the  east  hill  could  shout  out  lamb- 
ing intelligence  to  the  shepherd  on  the  west  hill,  over 
the  intervening  town  chimneys,  without  great  incon- 
venience to  his  voice,  so  nearly  did  the  steep  pastures 
encroach  upon  the  burghers'  backyards.  And  at  night 
it  was  possible  to  stand  in  the  very  midst  of  the  town 
and  hear  from  their  native  paddocks  on  the  lower  levels 
of  greensward  the  mild  lowing  of  the  farmer's  heifers, 
and  the  profound,  warm  blowings  of  breath  in  which 
those  creatures  indulge.  But  the  community  which  had 
jammed  itself  in  the  valley  thus  flanked  formed  a  veri- 
table town,  with  a  real  mayor  and  corporation,  and  a 
staple  manufacture. 

During  a  certain  damp  evening  five-and-thirty  years 
ago,  before  the  twilight  was  far  advanced,  a  pedestrian 
of  professional  appearance,  carrying  a  small  bag  in  his 
hand  and  an  elevated  umbrella,  was  descending  one  of 
these  hills  by  the  turnpike  road  when  he  was  overtaken 
by  a  phaeton. 

'  Hullo,  Downe — is  that  you  ? '  said  the  driver  of 
the  vehicle,  a  young  man  of  pale  and  refined  appearance. 
'Jump  up  here  with  me,  and  ride  down  to  your  door.' 

107 


•WESSEX  TALES 

The  other  turned  a  plump,  cheery,  rather  self-indul- 
gent face  over  his  shoulder  towards  the  hailer. 

*  O,  good  evening,  Mr.  Barnet — thanks,'  he  said,  and 
mounted  beside  his  acquaintance. 

They  were  fellow-burgesses  of  the  town  which  lay 
beneath  them,  but  though  old  and  very  good  friends, 
they  were  differently  circumstanced.  Barnet  was  a 
richer  man  than  the  struggling  young  lawyer  Downe, 
a  fact  which  was  to  some  extent  perceptible  in  Downe's 
manner  towards  his  companion,  though  nothing  of  it 
ever  showed  in  Barnet's  manner  towards  the  solicitor. 
Barnet's  position  in  the  town  was  none  of  his  own 
making;  his  father  had  been  a  very  successful  flax- 
merchant  in  the  same  place,  where  the  trade  was  still 
carried  on  as  briskly  as  the  small  capacities  of  its 
quarters  would  allow.  Having  acquired  a  fair  fortune, 
old  Mr.  Barnet  had  retired  from  business,  bringing  up 
his  son  as  a  gentleman-burgher,  and,  it  must  be  added, 
as  a  well-educated,  liberal-minded  young  man. 

'  How  is  Mrs.  Barnet  ?  '  asked  Downe. 

•Mrs.  Barnet  was  very  well  when  I  left  home,'  the 
other  answered  constrainedly,  exchanging  his  meditative 
regard  of  the  horse  for  one  of  self-consciousness. 

Mr.  Downe  seemed  to  regret  his  inquiry,  and  imme- 
diately took  up  another  thread  of  conversation.  He 
congratulated  his  friend  on  his  election  as  a  council- 
man; he  thought  he  had  not  seen  him  since  that 
event  took  place;  Mrs.  Downe  had  meant  to  call  and 
congratulate  Mrs.  Barnet,  but  he  feared  that  she  had 
failed  to  do  so  as  yet. 

Barnet  seemed  hampered  in  his  replies.  *  We  should 
have  been  glad  to  see  you.  I — my  wife  would  wel- 
come Mrs,  Downe  at  any  time,  as  you  know.  .  .  . 
Yes,  I  am  a  member  of  the  corporation — rather  an 
inexperienced  member,  some  of  them  say.  It  is  quite 
true ;  and  I  should  have  declined  the  honour  as 
premature — having  other  things  on  my  hands  just  now, 

io8 


^-^  FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

too — if  it  had  not  been  pressed  upon  me  so  very 
heartily.' 

'  There  is  one  thing  you  have  on  your  hands  which 
I  can  never  quite  see  the  necessity  for/  said  Downe, 
with  good-humoured  freedom.  '  ^^^^at  the  deuce  do 
you  want  to  build  that  new  mansion  for,  when  you 
have  already  got  such  an  excellent  house  as  the  one 
you  live  in  ?  ' 

Barnet's  face  acquired  a  warmer  shade  of  colour; 
but  as  the  question  had  been  idly  asked  by  the  solicitor 
while  regarding  the  surrounding  flocks  and  fields,  he 
answered  after  a  moment  with  no  apparent  embarrass- 
ment— 

*  Well,  we  wanted  to  get  out  of  the  town,  you  know  ; 
the  house  I  am  living  in  is  rather  old  and  inconvenient.' 

Mr.  Downe  declared  that  he  had  chosen  a  pretty 
site  for  the  new  building.  They  would  be  able  to  see 
for  miles  and  miles  from  the  windows.  Was  he  going 
to  give  it  a  name  ?     He  supposed  so. 

Barnet  thought  not.  There  was  no  other  house 
near  that  was  likely  to  be  mistaken  for  it.  And  he 
did  not  care  for  a  name. 

'  But  I  think  it  has  a  name  ! '  Downe  observed  :  '  I 
went  past — when  was  it? — this  morning;  and  I  saw 
something, — "  Chateau  Ringdale,"  I  think  it  was,  stuck 
up  on  a  board  ! ' 

*  It  was  an  idea  she — we  had  for  a  short  time,'  said 
Barnet  hastily.  *  But  we  have  decided  finally  to  do 
without  a  name — at  any  rate  such  a  name  as  that.  It 
must  have  been  a  week  ago  that  you  saw  it.  It  was 
taken  down  last  Saturday.  .  .  .  Upon  that  matter  I 
am  firm  ! '  he  added  grimly. 

Downe  murmured  in  an  unconvinced  tone  that  he 
thought  he  had  seen  it  yesterday. 

Talking  thus  they  drove  into  the  town.  The  street 
was  unusually  still  for  the  hour  of  seven  in  the  evening ; 
an  increasing  drizzle  had  prevailed  since  the  afternoon, 

109 


WESSEX  TALES 

and  now  formed  a  gauze  across  the  yellow  lamps,  and 
trickled  with  a  gentle  rattle  down  the  heavy  roofs  of 
stone  tile,  that  bent  the  house-ridges  hollow-backed 
with  its  weight,  and  in  some  instances  caused  the  walls 
to  bulge  outwards  in  the  upper  story.  Their  route  took 
them  past  the  little  town-hall,  the  Black-Bull  Hotel,  and 
onward  to  the  junction  of  a  small  street  on  the  right, 
consisting  of  a  row  of  those  two-and-two  windowed  brick 
residences  of  no  particular  age,  which  are  exactly  alike 
wherever  found,  except  in  the  people  they  contain. 

*  Wait — I'll  drive  you  up  to  your  door,'  said  Barnet, 
when  Downe  prepared  to  alight  at  the  corner.  He 
thereupon  turned  into  the  narrow  street,  when  the 
faces  of  three  Uttle  girls  could  be  discerned  close  to 
the  panes  of  a  lighted  window  a  few  yards  ahead,  sur- 
mounted by  that  of  a  young  matron,  the  gaze  of  all 
four  being  directed  eagerly  up  the  empty  street.  *  You 
are  a  fortunate  fellow,  Downe,'  Barnet  continued,  as 
mother  and  children  disappeared  from  the  window  to 
run  to  the  door.  '  You  must  be  happy  if  any  man  is. 
I  would  give  a  hundred  such  houses  as  my  new  one  to 
have  a  home  like  yours.' 

'  Well — yes,  we  get  along  pretty  comfortably,'  replied 
Downe  complacently. 

'That  house,  Downe,  is  none  of  my  ordering,' 
Barnet  broke  out,  revealing  a  bitterness  hitherto  sup- 
pressed, and  checking  the  horse  a  moment  to  finish  his 
speech  before  delivering  up  his  passenger.  'The  house 
I  have  already  is  good  enough  for  me,  as  you  supposed. 
It  is  my  own  freehold ;  it  was  built  by  my  grandfather, 
and  is  stout  enough  for  a  castle.  My  father  was  born 
there,  lived  there,  and  died  there.  I  was  born  there, 
and  have  always  lived  there ;  yet  I  must  needs  build  a 
new  one.' 

'  Why  do  you  ? '  said  Downe. 

'  Why  do  I  ?  To  preserve  peace  in  the  household. 
I  do  anything  for  that;   but  I  don't  succeed.     I  was 

%IQ 


^. 


«-.-  FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

firm  in  resisting  "  Chateau  Ringdale,"  however ;  not 
that  I  would  not  have  put  up  with  the  absurdity  of 
the  name,  but  it  was  too  much  to  have  your  house 
christened  after  Lord  Ringdale,  because  your  wife  once 
had  a  fancy  for  him.  If  you  only  knew  everything, 
you  would  think  all  attempt  at  reconciliation  hopeless. 
In  your  happy  home  you  have  had  no  such  experiences  ; 
and  God  forbid  that  you  ever  should.  See,  here  they 
are  all  ready  to  receive  you  ! ' 

'  Of  course !  And  so  will  your  wife  be  waiting  to 
receive  you,'  said  Downe.  '  Take  ray  word  for  it  she 
will!  And  with  a  dinner  prepared  for  you  far  better 
than  mine.' 

*  I  hope  so,'  Barnet  replied  dubiously. 

He  moved  on  to  Downe's  door,  which  the  solicitor's 
family  had  already  opened.  Downe  descended,  but 
being  encumbered  with  his  bag  and  umbrella,  his  foot 
slipped,  and  he  fell  upon  his  knees  in  the  gutter. 

'  O,  my  dear  Charles ! '  said  his  wife,  running  down 
the  steps ;  and,  quite  ignoring  the  presence  of  Barnet, 
she  seized  hold  of  her  husband,  pulled  him  to  his  feet, 
and  kissed  him,  exclaiming,  '  I  hope  you  are  not  hurt, 
darling ! '  The  children  crowded  round,  chiming  in 
piteously,  '  Poor  papa  1 ' 

'  He's  all  right,'  said  Barnet,  perceiving  that  Downe 
was  only  a  little  muddy,  and  looking  more  at  the  wife 
than  at  the  husband.  Almost  at  any  other  time — 
certainly  during  his  fastidious  bachelor  years — he  would 
have  thought  her  a  too  demonstrative  woman;  but 
those  recent  circumstances  of  his  own  life  to  which 
he  had  just  alluded  made  Mrs.  Downe's  solicitude  so 
affecting  that  his  eye  grew  damp  as  he  witnessed  it 
Bidding  the  law7er  and  his  family  good-night  he  left 
them,  and  drove  slowly  into  the  main  street  towards 
his  own  house. 

The  heart  of  Barnet  was  sufficiently  impressionable 
to  be  influenced  by  Downe's  parting  prophecy  that  he 


WESSEX  TALES 

might  not  be  so  unwelcome  home  as  he  imagined :  the 
dreary  night  might,  at  least  on  this  one  occasion,  make 
Downe's  forecast  true.  Hence  it  was  in  a  suspense 
that  he  could  hardly  have  believed  possible  that  he 
halted  at  his  door.  On  entering  his  wife  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen,  and  he  inquired  for  her.  The  servant  in- 
formed him  that  her  mistress  had  the  dresShiaker  with 
her,  and  would  be  engaged  for  some  time. 

'  Dressmaker  at  this  time  of  day  ! ' 

*  She  dined  early,  sir,  and  hopes  you  will  excuse  her 
joining  you  this  evening.' 

'  But  she  knew  I  was  coming  to-night  ? ' 

'  O  yes,  sir.' 

'  Go  up  and  tell  her  I  am  come.' 

The  servant  did  so;  but  the  mistress  of  the  house 
merely  transmitted  her  former  words. 

Barnet  said  nothing  more,  and  presently  sat  down 
to  his  lonely  meal,  which  was  eaten  abstractedly,  the 
domestic  scene  he  had  lately  witnessed  still  impressing 
him  by  its  contrast  with  the  situation  here.  His  mind 
fell  back  into  past  years  upon  a  certain  pleasing  and 
gentle  being  whose  face  would  loom  out  of  their  shades 
at  such  times  as  these.  Barnet  turned  in  his  chair, 
and  looked  with  unfocused  eyes  in  a  direction  south- 
ward from  where  he  sat,  as  if  he  saw  not  the  room  but 
a  long  way  beyond.  *  I  wonder  if  she  lives  there  still  i ' 
he  said. 


i_' 


n 

rlE  rose  with  a  sudden  rebelliousness,  put  on  his 
hat  and  coat,  and  went  out  of  the  house,  pursuing 
his  way  along  the  glistening  pavement  while  eight 
o'clock  was  striking  from  St.  Mary's  tower,  and  the 
apprentices  and  shopmen  were  slamming  up  the  shutters 
from  end  to  end  of  the  town.  In  two  minutes  only 
those  shops  which  could  boast  of  no  attendant  save  the 
master  or  the  mistress  remained  with  open  eyes.  These 
were  ever  somewhat  less  prompt  to  exclude  customers 
than  the  others :  for  their  owners'  ears  the  closing 
hour  had  scarcely  the  cheerfulness  that  it  possessed 
for  the  hired  servants  of  the  rest.  Yet  the  night  being 
dreary  the  delay  was  not  for  long,  and  their  windows, 
too,  blinked  together  one  by  one. 

During  this  time  Barnet  had  proceeded  with  decided 
step  in  a  direction  at  right  angles  to  the  broad  main 
thoroughfare  of  the  town,  by  a  long  street  leading  due 
southward.  Here,  though  his  family  had  no  more  to 
do  with  the  flax  manufacture,  his  own  name  occasion- 
ally greeted  him  on  gates  and  warehouses,  being  used 
allusively  by  small  rising  tradesmen  as  a  recommenda- 
tion, in  such  words  as  •  Smith,  from  Barnet  &  Co.' — 
'Robinson,  late  manager  at  Barnet's.'  The  sight  led 
him  to  reflect  upon  his  father's  busy  life,  and  he  ques- 
tioned if  it  had  not  been  far  happier  than  his  own. 

113  H 


Wessex  tales 

The  houses  along  the  road  became  fewer,  and  pre- 
sently open  ground  appeared  between  them  on  eithei 
side,  the  track  on  the  right  hand  rising  to  a  higher  level 
till  it  merged  in  a  knoll.  On  the  summit  a  row  of 
builders'  scafiTold-poles  probed  the  indistinct  sky  like 
spears,  and  at  their  bases  could  be  discerned  the  lower 
courses  of  a  building  lately  begun.  Barnet  slackened 
his  pace  and  stood  for  a  few  moments  without  leaving 
the  centre  of  the  road,  apparently  not  much  interested 
in  the  sight,  till  suddenly  his  eye  w2is  caught  by  a 
post  in  the  fore  part  of  the  ground  bearing  a  white 
board  at  the  top.  He  went  to  the  rails,  vaulted  over, 
and  walked  in  far  enough  to  discern  painted  upon  the 
board  '  Chateau  Ringdale.' 

A  dismal  irony  seemed  to  lie  in  the  words,  and  its 
effect  was  to  irritate  him.  Downe,  then,  had  spoken 
truly.  He  stuck  his  umbrella  into  the  sod,  and  seized 
the  post  with  both  hands,  as  if  intending  to  loosen 
and  throw  it  down.  Then,  like  one  bewildered  by  an 
opposition  which  would  exist  none  the  less  though  its 
manifestations  were  removed,  he  allowed  his  arms  to 
sink  to  his  side. 

'Let  it  be,'  he  said  to  himself.  *I  have  declared 
there  shall  be  peace — if  possible.' 

Taking  up  his  umbrella  he  quietly  left  the  enclosure, 
and  went  on  his  way,  still  keeping  his  back  to  the  town. 
He  had  advanced  with  more  decision  since  passing  the 
new  building,  and  soon  a  hoarse  murmur  rose  upon  the 
gloom ;  it  was  the  sound  of  the  sea.  The  road  led  to 
the  harbour,  at  a  distance  of  a  mile  from  the  town, 
from  which  the  trade  of  the  district  was  fed.  After 
seeing  the  obnoxious  name-board  Barnet  had  forgotten 
to  open  his  umbrella,  and  the  rain  tapped  smartly  on  his 
hat,  and  occasionally  stroked  his  face  as  he  went  on. 

Though  the  lamps  were  still  continued  at  the  road- 
side, they  stood  at  wider  intervals  than  before,  and  the 
pavement  had  given  place  to  common  road.      Every 

IZA 


FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

time  he  came  to  a  lamp  an  increasing  shine  made  itself 
visible  upon  his  shoulders,  till  at  last  they  quite  glistened 
with  wet.  The  murmur  from  the  shore  grew  stronger, 
but  it  was  still  some  distance  off  when  he  paused  before 
one  of  the  smallest  of  the  detached  houses  by  the  way- 
side, standing  in  its  own  garden,  the  latter  being  divided 
from  the  road  by  a  row  of  wooden  palings.  Scrutinizing 
the  spot  to  ensure  that  he  was  not  mistaken,  he  opened 
the  gate  and  gently  knocked  at  the  cottage  door. 

When  he  had  patiently  waited  minutes  enough  to 
lead  any  man  in  ordinary  cases  to  knock  again,  the  door 
was  heard  to  open,  though  it  was  impossible  to  see  by 
whose  hand,  there  being  no  light  in  the  passage.  Barnet 
said  at  random,  '  Does  Miss  Savile  live  here  ? ' 

A  youthful  voice  assured  him  that  she  did  live  there, 
and  by  a  sudden  afterthought  asked  him  to  come  in. 
It  would  soon  get  a  light,  it  said :  but  the  night  being 
wet,  mother  had  not  thought  it  worth  while  to  trim  the 
passage  lamp. 

'  Don't  trouble  yourself  to  get  a  light  for  me,'  said 
Barnet  hastily;  'it  is  not  necessary  at  all.  Which  is 
Miss  Savile's  sitting-room  ? ' 

The  young  person,  whose  white  pinafore  could  just 
be  discerned,  signified  a  door  in  the  side  of  the  passage, 
and  Barnet  went  forward  at  the  same  moment,  so  that 
no  light  should  fall  upon  his  face.  On  entering  the 
room  he  closed  the  door  behind  him,  pausing  till  he 
heard  the  retreating  footsteps  of  the  child. 

He  found  himself  in  an  apartment  which  was  simply 
and  neatly,  though  not  poorly  furnished ;  everjthing, 
from  the  miniature  chiffonnier  to  the  shining  httle 
daguerreotype  which  formed  the  central  ornament  of 
the  mantelpiece,  being  in  scrupulous  order.  The  picture 
was  enclosed  by  a  frame  of  embroidered  card-board — 
evidently  the  work  of  feminine  hands — and  it  was  the 
portrait  of  a  thin  faced,  elderly  lieutenant  in  the  navy. 
From  behind  the  lamp  on  the  table  a  female  form  now 

"5 


WESSEX  TALES 

rose  into  view,  that  of  a  young  girl,  and  a  resemblance 
between  her  and  the  portrait  was  early  discoverable. 
She  had  been  so  absorbed  in  some  occupation  on  the 
other  side  of  the  lamp  as  to  have  barely  found  time  to 
realize  her  visitor's  presence. 

They  both  remained  standing  for  a  few  seconds 
without  speaking.  The  face  that  confronted  Barnet 
had  a  beautiful  outline;  the  Raffaelesque  oval  of  its 
contour  was  remarkable  for  an  EngUsh  countenance, 
and  that  countenance  housed  in  a  remote  country-road 
to  an  unheard-of  harbour.  But  her  features  did  not 
do  justice  to  this  splendid  beginning :  Nature  had 
recollected  that  she  was  not  in  Italy;  and  the  young 
lady's  lineaments,  though  not  so  inconsistent  as  to 
make  her  plain,  would  have  been  accepted  rather  as 
pleasing  than  as  correct.  The  preoccupied  expression 
which,  like  images  on  the  retina,  remained  with  her 
for  a  moment  after  the  state  that  caused  it  had  ceased, 
now  changed  into  a  reserved,  halfproud,  and  slightly 
indignant  look,  in  which  the  blood  diffused  itself  quickly 
across  her  cheek,  and  additional  brightness  broke  the 
shade  of  her  rather  heavy  eyes. 

'  I  know  I  have  no  business  here,'  he  said,  answer- 
ing the  look.  'But  I  had  a  great  wish  to  see  you, 
and  inquire  how  you  were.  You  can  give  your  hand 
to  me,  seeing  how  often  I  have  held  it  in  past 
days?' 

*  I  would  rather  forget  than  remember  all  that,  Mr. 
Barnet,'  she  answered,  as  she  coldly  complied  with  the 
request.  'When  I  think  of  the  circumstances  of  our 
last  meeting,  I  can  hardly  consider  it  kind  of  you  to 
allude  to  such  a  thing  as  our  past — or,  indeed,  to  come 
here  at  all.' 

'  There  was  no  harm  in  it  surely  ?  I  don't  trouble 
you  often,  Lucy.' 

*  I  have  not  had  the  honour  of  a  visit  from  you  for 
a  very  long  time,  certainly,  and  I  did  not  expect  it 

ii6 


FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

now,'  she  said,  with  the  same  stiffness  in  her  air.  *1 
hope  Mrs.  Barnet  is  very  well  ? ' 

'  Yes,  yes  ! '  he  impatiently  returned.  '  At  least  I 
suppose  so — though  I  only  speak  from  inference ! ' 

'But  she  is  your  wife,  sir,'  said  the  young  girl 
tremulously. 

The  unwonted  tones  of  a  man's  voice  in  that  femi- 
nine chamber  had  startled  a  canary  that  was  roosting  in 
its  cage  by  the  window;  the  bird  awoke  hastily,  and 
fluttered  against  the  bars.  She  went  and  stilled  it 
by  laying  her  face  against  the  cage  and  murmuring  a 
coaxing  sound.  It  might  partly  have  been  done  to 
still  herself. 

'  I  didn't  come  to  talk  of  Mrs.  Barnet,'  he  pursued ; 
'  I  came  to  talk  of  you,  of  yourself  alone ;  to  inquire 
how  you  are  getting  on  since  your  great  loss.'  And 
he  turned  towards  the  portrait  of  her  father. 

*  I  am  getting  on  fairly  well,  thank  you.' 

The  force  of  her  utterance  was  scarcely  borne  out 
by  her  look;  but  Barnei  courteously  reproached  him- 
self for  not  having  guessed  a  thing  so  natural ;  and  to 
dissipate  all  embarrassment,  added,  as  he  bent  over  the 
table,  'What  were  you  doing  when  I  came? — painting 
flowers,  and  by  candlelight  ? ' 

'  O  no,'  she  said,  '  not  painting  them — only  sketching 
the  outlines.  I  do  that  at  night  to  save  time — I  have 
to  get  three  dozen  done  by  the  end  of  the  month.' 

Barnet  looked  as  if  he  regretted  it  deeply.  *You 
will  wear  your  poor  eyes  out,'  he  said,  with  more  senti- 
ment than  he  had  hitherto  shown.  '  You  ought  not  to 
do  it.  There  was  a  time  when  I  should  have  said  you 
must  not.  Well — I  almost  wish  I  had  never  seen  light 
with  my  own  eyes  when  I  think  of  that  1 ' 

'  Is  this  a  time  or  place  for  recalling  such  matters  ? ' 
she  asked,  with  dignity.  'You  used  to  have  a  gentle- 
manly respect  for  me,  and  for  yourself.  Don't  speak 
any  more  as  you  have  spoken,  and  don't  come  again. 

117 


WESSEX  TALES 

I  cannot  think  that  this  visit  is  serious,  or  was  closely 
considered  by  you.' 

'  Considered  :  well,  I  came  to  see  you  as  an  old  and 
good  friend — not  to  mince  matters,  to  visit  a  woman  I 
loved.  Don't  be  angry !  I  could  not  help  doing  it, 
so  many  things  brought  you  into  my  mind.  .  .  .  This 
evening  I  fell  in  with  an  acquaintance,  and  when  I  saw 
how  happy  he  was  with  his  wife  and  family  welcoming 
him  home,  though  with  only  one-tenth  of  my  income 
and  chances,  and  thought  what  might  have  been  in  my 
case,  it  fairly  broke  down  my  discretion,  and  off  I  came 
here.  Now  I  am  here  I  feel  that  I  am  wrong  to  some 
extent.  But  the  feeling  that  I  should  like  to  see  you, 
and  talk  of  those  we  used  to  know  in  common,  was 
very  strong.' 

'  Before  that  can  be  the  case  a  little  more  time  must 
pass,*  said  Miss  Savile  quietly;  'a  time  long  enough 
for  me  to  regard  with  some  calmness  what  at  present  I 
remember  far  too  impatiently — though  it  may  be  you 
almost  forget  it.  Indeed  you  must  have  forgotten  it 
long  before  you  acted  as  you  did.'  Her  voice  grew 
stronger  and  more  vivacious  as  she  added :  '  But  I  am 
doing  my  best  to  forget  it  too,  and  I  know  I  shall 
succeed  from  the  progress  I  have  made  already ! ' 

She  had  remained  standing  till  now,  when  she  turned 
and  sat  down,  facing  half  away  from  him. 

Barnet  watched  her  moodily.  '  Yes,  it  is  only  what 
I  deserve,'  he  said.  'Ambition  pricked  me  on — no, 
it  was  not  ambition,  it  was  wrongheadedness !  Had  I 
but  reflected.  .  .  .'  He  broke  out  vehemently :  '  But 
always  remember  this,  Lucy :  if  you  had  written  to  me 
only  one  little  line  after  that  misunderstanding,  I  declare 
I  should  have  come  back  to  you.  That  ruined  me !  * 
he  slowly  walked  as  far  as  the  little  room  would  allow 
him  to  go,  and  remained  with  his  eyes  on  the  skirting. 

*  But,  Mr.  Barnet,  how  could  I  write  to  you  ?  There 
was  no  opening  for  my  doing  so.' 

218 


FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

•Then  there  ought  to  have  been,'  said  Barnet,  turn- 
ing.    '  That  was  my  fault ! ' 

'Well,  I  don't  know  anything  about  that;  but  as 
there  had  been  nothing  said  by  me  which  required  any 
explanation  by  letter,  I  did  not  send  one.  Everything 
was  so  indefinite,  and  feeling  your  position  to  be  so 
much  wealthier  than  mine,  I  fancied  I  might  have 
mistaken  your  meaning.  And  when  I  heard  of  the 
other  lady — a  woman  of  whose  family  even  you  might 
be  proud — I  thought  how  foolish  I  had  been,  and  said 
nothing.' 

*  Then  I  suppose  it  was  destiny — accident — I  don't 
know  what,  that  separated  us,  dear  Lucy.  Anyhow  you 
were  the  woman  I  ought  to  have  made  my  wife — and  I 
let  you  slip,  like  the  foolish  man  that  I  was ! ' 

♦O,  Mr.  Barnet,'  she  said,  almost  in  tears,  'don't 
revive  the  subject  to  me ;  I  am  the  wrong  one  to  con- 
sole you — think,  sir, — you  should  not  be  here — it  would 
be  so  bad  for  me  if  it  were  known  ! ' 

'  It  would — it  would,  indeed,*  he  said  hastily.  •  I 
am  not  right  in  doing  this,  and  I  won't  do  it  again.' 

'It  is  a  very  common  folly  of  human  nature,  you 
know,  to  think  the  course  you  did  not  adopt  must  have 
been  the  best,'  she  continued,  with  gentle  solicitude,  as 
she  followed  him  to  the  door  of  the  room.  '  And  you 
don't  know  that  I  should  have  accepted  you,  even  if 
you  had  asked  me  to  be  your  wife.'  At  this  his  eye 
met  h^rs,  and  she  dropped  her  gaze.  She  knew  that 
her  voice  belied  her.  There  was  a  silence  till  she 
looked  up  to  add,  in  a  voice  of  soothing  playfulness, 
'  My  family  was  so  much  poorer  than  yours,  even  before 
I  lost  my  dear  father,  that — perhaps  your  companions 
would  have  made  it  unpleasant  for  us  on  account  of  my 
deficiencies.' 

'  Your  disposition  would  soon  have  won  them  round,* 
said  Barnet. 

She  archly  expostulated  :  '  Now,  never  mind  my  dis- 
I  119 


WESSEX  TALES 

position ;  try  to  make  it  up  with  your  wife !  Those 
are  my  commands  to  you.  And  now  you  are  to  leave 
me  at  once.' 

'  I  will.  I  must  make  the  best  of  it  all,  I  suppose,' 
he  replied,  more  cheerfully  than  he  had  as  yet  spoken. 
'  But  I  shall  never  again  meet  with  such  a  dear  girl  as 
you ! '  And  he  suddenly  opened  the  door,  and  left  her 
alone.  \Vhen  his  glance  again  fell  on  the  lamps  that 
were  sparsely  ranged  along  the  dreary  level  road,  his 
eyes  were  in  a  state  which  showed  straw-hke  motes  of 
light  radiating  from  each  flame  into  the  surrounding  air. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  way  Barnet  observed  a 
man  under  an  umbrella,  walking  parallel  with  himself. 
Presently  this  man  left  the  footway,  and  gradually  con- 
verged on  Barnet's  course.  The  latter  then  saw  that 
it  was  Charlson,  a  surgeon  of  the  town,  who  owed  him 
money.  Charlson  was  a  man  not  without  ability ;  yet 
he  did  not  prosper.  Sundry  circumstances  stood  in  his 
way  as  a  medical  practitioner  :  he  was  needy ;  he  was 
not  a  coddle;  he  gossiped  with  men  instead  of  with 
women;  he  had  married  a  stranger  instead  of  one  of 
the  town  young  ladies  ;  and  he  was  given  to  conver- 
sational buffoonery.  Moreover,  his  look  was  quite 
erroneous.  Those  only  proper  features  in  the  family 
doctor,  the  quiet  eye,  and  the  thin  straight  passionless 
lips  which  never  curl  in  public  either  for  laughter  or 
for  scorn,  were  not  his  ;  he  had  a  full-curved  mouth, 
and  a  bold  black  eye  that  made  timid  people  nervous. 
His  companions  were  what  in  old  times  would  have 
been  called  boon  companions — an  expression  which, 
though  of  irreproachable  root,  suggests  fraternization 
carried  to  the  point  of  unscrupulousness.  All  this  was 
against  him  in  the  little  town  of  his  adoption. 

Charlson  had  been  in  difficulties,  and  to  oblige  him 
Barnet  had  put  his  name  to  a  bill;  and,  as  he  had 
expected,  was  called  upon  to  meet  it  when  it  fell  due. 
It  had  been  only  a  matter  of  fifty  pounds,  which  Barnet 

I20 


iS  FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

could  well  afford  to  lose,  and  he  bore  no  ill-will  to  the 
thriftless  surgeon  on  account  of  it.  But  Charlson  had 
a  little  too  much  brazen  indifferentism  in  his  composi- 
tion to  be  altogether  a  desirable  acquaintance. 

*  I  hope  to  be  able  to  make  that  Utile  bill-business 
right  with  you  in  the  course  of  three  weeks,  Mr.  Barnet,' 
said  Charlson  with  hail-fellow  friendhness. 

Barnet  replied  good-naturedly  that  there  was  no  hurry. 

This  particular  three  weeks  had  moved  on  in  advance 
of  Charlson's  present  with  the  precision  of  a  shadow  for 
some  considerable  time. 

'  I've  had  a  dream,'  Charlson  continued.  Barnet 
knew  from  his  tone  that  the  surgeon  was  going  to  begin 
his  characteristic  nonsense,  and  did  not  encourage  him. 
'  I've  had  a  dream,'  repeated  Charlson,  who  required 
no  encouragement.  '  I  dreamed  that  a  gentleman,  who 
has  been  very  kind  to  me,  married  a  haughty  lady  in 
haste,  before  he  had  quite  forgotten  a  nice  little  girl  he 
knew  before,  and  that  one  wet  evening,  like  the  present, 
as  I  was  walking  up  the  harbour-road,  I  saw  him  come 
out  of  that  dear  little  girl's  present  abode.' 

Barnet  glanced  towards  the  speaker.  The  rays  from 
a  neighbouring  lamp  struck  through  the  drizzle  under 
Charlson's  umbrella,  so  as  just  to  illumine  his  face 
against  the  shade  behind,  and  show  that  his  eye  was 
turned  up  under  the  outer  corner  of  its  lid,  whence  it 
leered  with  impish  jocoseness  as  he  thrust  his  tongue 
into  his  cheek. 

•Come,'  said  Barnet  gravely,  *  we'll  have  no  more 
of  that.' 

'  No,  no — of  course  not,'  Charlson  hastily  answered, 
seeing  that  his  humour  had  carried  him  too  far,  as  it 
had  done  many  times  before.  He  was  profuse  in  his 
apologies,  but  Barnet  did  not  reply.  Of  one  thing 
he  was  certain — that  scandal  was  a  plant  of  quick  root, 
and  that  he  was  bound  to  obey  Lucy's  injunction  for 
Lucy's  own  sake. 

121 


Ill 

He  did  so,  to  the  letter;  and  though,  as  the  crof.us 

followed  the  snowdrop  and  the  daffodil  the  crocus  in 
Lucy's  garden,  the  harbour-road  was  a  not  unpleasant 
place  to  walk  in,  Barnet's  feet  never  trod  its  stones, 
much  less  approached  her  door.  He  avoided  a  saunter 
that  way  as  he  would  have  avoided  a  dangerous  dram, 
and  took  his  airings  a  long  distance  northward,  among 
severely  square  and  brown  ploughed  fields,  where  no 
other  townsman  came.  Sometimes  he  went  round  by 
the  lower  lanes  of  the  borough,  where  the  rope-walks 
stretched  in  which  his  family  formerly  had  share,  and 
looked  at  the  rope- makers  walking  backwards,  overhung 
by  apple-trees  and  bushes,  and  intruded  on  by  cows 
and  calves,  as  if  trade  had  estabhshed  itself  there  at 
considerable  inconvenience  to  Nature. 

One  morning,  when  the  sun  was  so  warm  as  to 
raise  a  steam  from  the  south-eastern  slopes  of  those 
flanking  hills  that  looked  so  lovely  above  the  old  roofs, 
but  made  every  low-chimneyed  house  in  the  town  as 
smoky  as  Tophet,  Barnet  glanced  from  the  windows  of 
the  town-council  room  for  lack  of  interest  in  what  was 
proceeding  within.  Several  members  of  the  corporation 
were  present,  but  there  was  not  much  business  doing, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  Downe  came  leisurely  across  to 
him,  saying  that  he  seldom  saw  Barnet  now. 

122 


5_-  FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

Barnet  owned  that  he  was  not  often  present. 

Downe  looked  at  the  crimson  curtain  which  hung 
down  beside  the  panes,  reflecting  its  hot  hues  into  their 
faces,  and  then  out  of  the  window.  At  that  moment 
there  passed  along  the  street  a  tall  commanding  lady, 
in  whom  the  solicitor  recognized  Barnet's  wife.  Barnet 
had  done  the  same  thing,  and  turned  away. 

'  It  will  be  all  right  some  day,'  said  Downe,  with 
cheering  sympathy. 

*  You  have  heard,  then,  of  her  last  outbreak  ? ' 
Downe  depressed  his  cheerfulness  to  its  very  reverse 

in  a  moment.  '  No,  I  have  not  heard  of  anything 
serious,'  he  said,  with  as  long  a  face  as  one  naturally 
round  could  be  turned  into  at  short  notice.  '  I  only 
hear  vague  reports  of  such  things.' 

'You  may  think  it  will  be  all  right,'  said  Barnet 
drily.  '  But  I  have  a  different  opinion.  .  .  .  No, 
Downe,  we  must  look  the  thing  in  the  face.  Not 
poppy  nor  mandragora — however,  how  are  your  wife 
and  children?' 

Downe  said  that  they  were  all  well,  thanks ;  they 
were  out  that  morning  somewhere ;  he  was  just  looking 
to  see  if  they  were  walking  that  way.  Ah,  there  they 
were,  just  coming  down  the  street ;  and  Downe  pointed 
to  the  figures  of  two  children  with  a  nursemaid,  and  a 
lady  walking  behind  them. 

*  You  will  come  out  and  speak  to  her  ? '  he  asked. 

*  Not  this  morning.  The  fact  is  I  don't  care  to 
speak  to  anybody  just  now.' 

'You  are  too  sensitive,  Mr.  Barnet.  At  school  I 
remember  you  used  to  get  as  red  as  a  rose  if  anybody 
uttered  a  word  that  hurt  your  feelings.' 

Barnet  mused.  '  Yes,'  he  admitted, '  there  is  a  grain 
of  truth  in  that.  It  is  because  of  that  I  often  try  to 
make  peace  at  home.  Life  would  be  tolerable  then  at 
any  rate,  even  if  not  particularly  bright.' 

*  I  have  thought  more  than  once  of  proposing  a  little 

123 


WESSEX   TALES 

plan  to  you,'  said  Downe  with  some  hesitation.  '  I 
don't  know  whether  it  will  meet  your  views,  but  take 
it  or  leave  it,  as  you  choose.  In  fact,  it  was  my  wife 
who  suggested  it :  that  she  would  be  very  glad  to  call 
on  Mrs.  Barnet  and  get  into  her  confidence.  She  seems 
to  think  that  Mrs.  Barnet  is  rather  alone  in  the  town, 
and  without  advisers.  Her  impression  is  that  your 
wife  will  listen  to  reason.  Emily  has  a  wonderful  way 
of  winning  the  hearts  of  people  of  her  own  sex.' 

*  And  of  the  other  sex  too,  I  think.  ,  She  is  a  charm- 
ing woman,  and  you  were  a  lucky  fellow  to  find  her.' 

'Well,  perhaps  I  was,'  simpered  Downe,  trying  to 
wear  an  aspect  of  being  the  last  man  in  the  world  to 
feel  pride.  '  However,  she  will  be  likely  to  find  out 
what  ruffles  Mrs.  Barnet  Perhaps  it  is  some  mis- 
understanding, you  know — something  that  she  is  too 
proud  to  ask  you  to  explain,  or  some  little  thing  in 
your  conduct  that  irritates  her  because  she  does  not 
fully  comprehend  you.  The  truth  is,  Emily  would  have 
been  more  ready  to  make  advances  if  she  had  been 
quite  sure  of  her  fitness  for  Mrs.  Barnet's  society,  who 
has  of  course  been  accustomed  to  London  people  of 
good  position,  which  made  Emily  fearful  of  intruding.' 

Barnet  expressed  his  warmest  thanks  for  the  well- 
intentioned  proposition.  There  was  reason  in  Mrs. 
Downe's  fear — that  he  owned.  *  But  do  let  her  call,' 
he  said.  'There  is  no  woman  in  England  I  would  so 
soon  trust  on  such  an  errand.  I  am  afraid  there  will 
not  be  any  brilliant  result ;  still  I  shall  take  it  as  the 
kindest  and  nicest  thing  if  she  will  try  it,  and  not  be 
frightened  at  a  repulse.' 

When  Barnet  and  Downe  had  parted,  the  former 
went  to  the  Town  Savings-Bank,  of  which  he  was  a 
trustee,  and  endeavoured  to  forget  his  troubles  in  the 
contemplation  of  low  sums  of  money,  and  figures  in  a 
network  of  red  and  blue  lines.  He  sat  and  watched 
the  working-people  making  their  deposits,  to  which  at 

124 


i-^'  FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

intervals  he  signed  his  name.  Before  he  left  in  the 
afternoon  Downe  put  his  head  inside  the  door.^ 

'Emily  has  seen  Mrs.  Barnet/  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice.  'She  has  got  Mrs.  Barnet's  promise  to  take 
her  for  a  drive  down  to  the  shore  to-morrow,  if  it  is 
fine.     Good  afternoon  ! ' 

Barnet  shook  Downe  by  the  hand  without  speaking, 
and  Downe  went  away. 


IV 

1  HE  next  day  was  as  fine  as  the  arrangement  could 

possibly  require.  As  the  sun  passed  the  meridian  and 
declined  westward,  the  tall  shadows  from  the  scaffold- 
poles  of  Barnet's  rising  residence  streaked  the  ground 
as  far  as  to  the  middle  of  the  highway.  Barnet  him- 
self was  there  inspecting  the  progress  of  the  works  for 
the  first  time  during  several  weeks.  A  building  in  an 
old-fashioned  town  five-and-thirty  years  ago  did  not,  as 
in  the  modern  fashion,  rise  from  the  sod  like  a  booth 
at  a  fair.  The  foundations  and  lower  courses  were  put 
in  and  allowed  to  settle  for  many  weeks  before  the 
superstructure  was  built  up,  and  a  whole  summer  of 
drying  was  hardly  sufficient  to  do  justice  to  the  impor- 
tant issues  involved.  Barnet  stood  within  a  window- 
niche  which  had  as  yet  received  no  frame,  and  thence 
looked  down  a  slope  into  the  road.  The  wheels  of  a 
chaise  were  heard,  and  then  his  handsome  Xantippe, 
in  the  company  of  Mrs.  Downe,  drove  past  on  their 
way  to  the  shore.  They  were  driving  slowly;  there 
was  a  pleasing  light  in  Mrs.  Downe's  face,  which 
seemed  faintly  to  reflect  itself  upon  the  countenance 
of  her  companion — that  politesse  du  cxur  which  was  so 
natural  to  her  having  possibly  begun  already  to  work 
results.  But  whatever  the  situation,  Barnet  resolved 
not  to  interfere,  or  do  anything  to  hazard  'he  promise  of 

126 


*-•  FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

the  day.  He  might  well  afford  to  trust  the  issue  to 
another  when  he  could  never  direct  it  but  to  ill  himself. 
His  wife's  clenched  rein-hand  in  its  lemon-coloured 
glove,  her  stiff  erect  figure,  clad  in  velvet  and  lace, 
and  her  boldly-outhned  face,  passed  on,  exhibiting  their 
owner  as  one  fixed  for  ever  above  the  level  of  her  com- 
panion— socially  by  her  early  breeding,  and  materially 
by  her  higher  cushion. 

Barnet  decided  to  allow  them  a  proper  time  to  them- 
selves, and  then  stroll  down  to  the  shore  and  drive  them 
home.  After  lingering  on  at  the  house  for  another  hour 
he  started  with  this  intention.  A  few  hundred  yards 
below  'Chateau  Ringdale'  stood  the  cottage  in  which 
the  late  lieutenant's  daughter  had  her  lodging.  Barnet 
had  not  been  so  far  that  way  for  a  long  time,  and  as 
he  approached  the  forbidden  ground  a  curious  warmth 
passed  into  him,  which  led  him  to  perceive  that,  unless 
he  were  careful,  he  might  have  to  fight  the  battle  with 
himself  about  Lucy  over  again.  A  tenth  of  his  present 
excuse  would,  however,  have  justified  him  in  travelling 
by  that  road  to-day. 

He  came  opposite  the  dwelling,  and  turned  his  eyes 
for  a  momentary  glance  into  the  little  garden  that 
stretched  from  the  palings  to  the  door.  Lucy  was  in 
the  enclosure ;  she  was  walking  and  stooping  to  gather 
some  flowers,  possibly  for  the  purpose  of  painting  them, 
for  she  moved  about  quickly,  as  if  anxious  to  save  time. 
She  did  not  see  him ;  he  might  have  passed  unnoticed ; 
but  a  sensation  which  was  not  in  strict  unison  with  his 
previous  sentiments  that  day  led  him  to  pause  in  his 
walk  and  watch  her.  She  went  nimbly  round  and 
round  the  beds  of  anemones,  tulips,  jonquils,  polyan- 
thuses, and  other  old-fashioned  flowers,  looking  a  very 
charming  figure  in  her  half-mourning  bonnet,  and  with 
an  incomplete  nosegay  in  her  left  hand.  Raising  herself 
to  pull  down  a  lilac  blossom  she  observed  him. 

*  Mr.  Barnet  1 '  she  said,  innocently  smiling.     '  Why,  I 

127 


WESSEX  TALES 

have  been  thinking  of  you  many  times  since  Mrs.  Barnet 
went  by  in  the  pony-carriage,  and  now  here  you  are ! ' 

*  Yes,  Lucy,'  he  said. 

Then  she  seemed  to  recall  particulars  of  their  last  jl 

meeting,  and  he  believed  that  she  flushed,  though  it 
might  have  been  only  the  fancy  of  his  own  super- 
sensitivenesss. 

*  I  am  going  to  the  harbour,'  he  added,  , 

*  Are  you  ? '  Lucy  remarked  simply.  '  A  great  many 
people  begin  to  go  there  now  the  summer  is  draw- 
ing on.' 

Her  face  had  come  more  into  his  view  as  she  spoke, 
and  he  noticed  how  much  thinner  and  paler  it  was  than 
when  he  had  seen  it  last.  '  Lucy,  how  weary  you  look  ! 
tell  me,  can  I  help  you  ? '  he  was  going  to  cry  out. — 
•  If  I  do,'  he  thought,  *  it  will  be  the  ruin  of  us  both  ! ' 
He  merely  said  that  the  afternoon  was  fine,  and  went 
on  his  way. 

As  he  went  a  sudden  blast  of  air  came  over  the 
hill  as  if  in  contradiction  to  his  words,  and  spoilt  the 
previous  quiet  of  the  scene.  The  wind  had  already 
shifted  violently,  and  now  smelt  of  the  sea. 

The  harbour-road  soon  began  to  justify  its  name. 
A  gap  appeared  in  the  rampart  of  hills  which  shut  out 
the  sea,  and  on  the  left  of  the  opening  rose  a  vertical 
cliff,  coloured  a  burning  orange  by  the  sunlight,  the 
companion  cliff  on  the  right  being  livid  in  shade.  Be- 
tween these  cliffs,  like  the  Libyan  bay  which  sheltered 
the  shipwrecked  Trojans,  was  a  little  haven,  seemingly 
a  beginning  made  by  Nature  herself  of  a  perfect  harbour, 
which  appealed  to  the  passer-by  as  only  requiring  a  little 
human  industry  to  finish  it  and  make  it  famous,  the 
ground  on  each  side  as  far  back  as  the  daisied  slopes 
that  bounded  the  interior  valley  being  a  mere  layer 
of  blown  sand.  But  the  Port-Bredy  burgesses  a  mile 
inland  had,  in  the  course  of  ten  centuries,  responded 
many  times  to  that  mute  appeal,  with  the  result  that 

123 


i^'  FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

the  tides  had  invariably  choked  up  their  works  with 
sand  and  shingle  as  soon  as  completed.  There  were 
but  few  houses  here :  a  rough  pier,  a  few  boats,  some 
stores,  an  inn,  a  residence  or  two,  a  ketch  unloading  in 
the  harbour,  were  the  chief  features  of  the  settlement. 
On  the  open  ground  by  the  shore  stood  his  wife's 
pony-carriage,  empty,  the  boy  in  attendance  holding  the 
horse. 

When  Barnet  drew  nearer,  he  saw  an  indigo-coloured 
spot  moving  swiftly  along  beneath  the  radiant  base  of 
the  eastern  cliff,  which  proved  to  be  a  man  in  a  jersey, 
running  with  all  his  might.  He  held  up  his  hand  to 
Barnet,  as  it  seemed,  and  they  approached  each  other. 
The  man  was  local,  but  a  stranger  to  him. 

'  What  is  it,  my  man  ? '  said  Barnet. 

'  A  terrible  calamity  ! '  the  boatman  hastily  explained. 
Two  ladies  had  been  capsized  in  a  boat — they  were 
Mrs.  Downe  and  Mrs.  Barnet  of  the  old  town ;  they 
had  diiven  down  there  that  afternoon — they  had  alighted, 
and  it  was  so  fine,  that,  after  walking  about  a  little  while, 
they  had  been  tempted  to  go  out  for  a  short  sail  round 
the  cliff.  Just  as  they  were  putting  in  to  the  shore,  the 
wind  shifted  with  a  sudden  gust,  the  boat  listed  over, 
and  it  was  thought  they  were  both  drowned.  How  it 
could  have  happened  was  beyond  his  mind  to  fathom, 
for  John  Green  knew  how  to  sail  a  boat  as  well  as  any 
man  there. 

'  Which  is  the  way  to  the  place  ? '  said  Barnet. 

It  was  just  round  the  cliff. 

*  Run  to  the  carriage  and  tell  the  boy  to  bring  it 
to  the  place  as  soon  as  you  can.  Then  go  to  the 
Harbour  Inn  and  tell  them  to  ride  to  town  for  a  doctor. 
Have  they  been  got  out  of  the  water  ? ' 

'  One  lady  has.' 

*  Which  ? ' 

'  Mrs.  Barnet  Mrs.  Downe,  it  is  feared,  has  fleeted 
out  to  sea.' 

1^9  1 


WESSEX  TALES 

Barnet  ran  on  to  that  part  of  the  shore  which  the 
cliff  had  hitherto  obscured  from  his  view,  and  there 
discerned,  a  long  way  ahead,  a  group  of  fishermen 
standing.  As  soon  as  he  came  up  one  or  two  recog- 
nized him,  and,  not  liking  to  meet  his  eye,  turned  aside 
with  misgiving.  He  went  amidst  them  and  saw  a  small 
sailing-boat  lying  draggled  at  the  water's  edge ;  and,  on 
the  sloping  shingle  beside  it,  a  soaked  and  sandy 
woman's  form  in  the  velvet  dress  and  yellow  gloves  of 
his  wife. 


All  had  been  done  that  could  be  done.  Mrs. 
Barnet  was  in  her  own  house  under  medical  hands,  but 
the  result  was  still  uncertain.  Barnet  had  acted  as  if 
devotion  to  his  wife  were  the  dominant  passion  of  his 
existence.  There  had  been  much  to  decide — whether 
to  attempt  restoration  of  the  apparently  Ufeless  body 
as  it  lay  on  the  shore — whether  to  carry  her  to  the 
Harbour  Inn — whether  to  drive  with  her  at  once  to 
his  own  house.  The  first  course,  with  no  skilled  help 
or  appliances  near  at  hand,  had  seemed  hopeless.  The 
second  course  would  have  occupied  nearly  as  much 
time  as  a  drive  to  the  town,  owing  to  the  intervening 
ridges  of  shingle,  and  the  necessity  of  crossing  the 
harbour  by  boat  to  get  to  the  house,  added  to  which 
much  time  must  have  elapsed  before  a  doctor  could 
have  arrived  down  there.  By  bringing  her  home  in  the 
carriage  some  precious  moments  had  slipped  by;  but 
she  had  been  laid  in  her  own  bed  in  seven  minutes,  a 
doctor  called  to  her  side,  and  every  possible  restorative 
brought  to  bear  upon  her. 

At  what  a  tearing  pace  he  had  driven  up  that 
road,  through  the  yellow  evening  sunlight,  the  shadows 
flapping  irksomely  into  his  eyes  as  each  wayside  object 
rushed  past  between  him  and  the  west !  Tired  work- 
men with  their  baskets  at  their  backs  had  turned  on 

»3i 


WESSEX  TALES 

their  homeward  journey  to  wonder  at  his  speed.  Half- 
way between  the  shore  and  Port-Bredy  town  he  had  met 
Charlson,  who  had  been  the  first  surgeon  to  hear  of  the 
accident.  He  was  accompanied  by  his  assistant  in  a 
gig.  Barnet  had  sent  on  the  latter  to  the  coast  in  case 
that  Downe's  poor  wife  should  by  that  time  have  been 
reclaimed  from  the  waves,  and  had  brought  Charlson 
back  with  him  to  the  house. 

Barnet's  presence  was  not  needed  here,  and  he  felt 
it  to  be  his  next  duty  to  set  off  at  once  and  find  Downe, 
that  no  other  than  himself  might  break  the  news  to 
him. 

He  was  quite  sure  that  no  chance  had  been  lost  for 
Mrs,  Downe  by  his  leaving  the  shore.  By  the  time 
that  Mrs.  Barnet  had  been  laid  in  the  carriage,  a  much 
larger  group  had  assembled  to  lend  assistance  in  finding 
her  friend,  rendering  his  own  help  superfluous.  But 
the  duty  of  breaking  the  news  was  made  doubly  painful 
by  the  circumstance  that  the  catastrophe  which  had 
befallen  Mrs.  Downe  was  solely  the  result  of  her  own 
and  her  husband's  loving-kindness  towards  himself. 

He  found  Downe  in  his  office.  When  the  solicitor 
comprehended  the  intelligence  he  turned  pale,  stood 
up,  and  remained  for  a  moment  perfectly  still,  as  if 
bereft  of  his  faculties;  then  his  shoulders  heaved,  he 
pulled  out  his  handkerchief  and  began  to  cry  like  a 
child.  His  sobs  mjght  have  been  heard  in  the  next 
room.  He  seemed  to  have  no  idea  of  going  to  the 
shore,  or  of  doing  anything ;  but  when  Barnet  took  him 
gently  by  the  hand  and  proposed  to  start  at  once,  he 
quietly  acquiesced,  neither  uttering  any  further  word 
nor  making  any  effort  to  repress  his  tears. 

Barnet  accompanied  him  to  the  shore,  where,  finding 
that  no  trace  had  as  yet  been  seen  of  Mrs.  Downe,  and 
that  his  stay  would  be  of  no  avail,  he  left  Downe  with 
his  friends  and  the  young  doctor,  and  once  more 
hastened  back  to  his  own  house. 

132 


5_:  FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

At  the  door  he  met  Charlson.      '  Well ! '  Barnet  said. 

'  I  have  just  come  down,'  said  the  doctor ;  '  we  have 
done  everything,  but  without  result.  I  sympathize  with 
you  in  your  bereavement.' 

Barnet  did  not  much  appreciate  Charlson's  sympathy, 
which  sounded  to  his  ears  as  something  of  a  mockery 
from  the  lips  of  a  man  who  knew  what  Charlson  knew 
about  their  domestic  relations.  Indeed  there  seemed 
an  odd  spark  in  Charlson's  full  black  eye  as  he  said 
the  words ;  but  that  might  have  been  imaginary. 

'  And,  Mr.  Barnet,'  Charlson  resumed,  '  that  httle 
matter  between  us — I  hope  to  settle  it  finally  in  three 
weeks  at  least.' 

'Never  mind  that  now,'  said  Barnet  abruptly.  He 
directed  the  surgeon  to  go  to  the  harbour  in  case  his 
services  might  even  now  be  necessary  there :  and  him- 
self entered  the  house. 

The  servants  were  coming  from  his  wife's  chamber, 
looking  helplessly  at  each  other  and  at  him.  He 
passed  them  by  and  entered  the  room,  where  he  stood 
mutely  regarding  the  bed  for  a  few  minutes,  after 
which  he  walked  into  his  own  dressing-room  adjoining, 
and  there  paced  up  and  down.  In  a  minute  or  two 
he  noticed  what  a  strange  and  total  silence  had  come 
over  the  upper  part  of  the  house ;  his  own  movements, 
muffled  as  they  were  by  the  carpet,  seemed  noisy,  and 
his  thoughts  to  disturb  the  air  like  articulate  utterances. 
His  eye  glanced  through  the  window.  Far  down  the 
road  to  the  harbour  a  roof  detained  his  gaze :  out  of 
it  rose  a  red  chimney,  and  out  of  the  red  chimney  a 
curl  of  smoke,  as  from  a  fire  newly  kindled.  He  had 
often  seen  such  a  sight  before.  In  that  house  lived 
Lucy  Savile;  and  the  smoke  was  from  the  fire  which 
was  regularly  lighted  at  this  time  to  make  her  tea. 

After  that  he  went  back  to  the  bedroom,  and  stood 
there  some  time  regarding  his  wife's  silent  form.  She 
was  a  woman  some  years  older  than  himself,  but  had 

133 


WESSEX  TALES 

not  by  any  means  overpassed  the  maturity  of  good 
looks  and  vigour.  Her  passionate  features,  well-defined, 
firm,  and  statuesque  in  life,  were  doubly  so  now :  her 
mouth  and  brow,  beneath  her  purplish  black  hair, 
showed  only  too  clearly  that  the  turbulency  of  character 
which  had  made  a  bear-garden  of  his  house  had  been 
no  temporary  phase  of  her  existence.  While  he  re- 
flected, he  suddenly  said  to  himself,  I  wonder  if  all 
has  been  done? 

The  thought  was  led  up  to  by  his  having  fancied 
that  his  wife's  features  lacked  in  its  complete  form  the 
expression  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to  associate 
with  the  faces  of  those  whose  spirits  have  fled  for  ever. 
The  effacement  of  life  was  not  so  marked  but  that, 
entering  uninformed,  he  might  have  supposed  her  sleep- 
ing. Her  complexion  was  that  seen  in  the  numerous 
faded  portraits  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds;  it  was  pallid 
in  comparison  with  life,  but  there  was  visible  on  a  close 
inspection  the  remnant  of  what  had  once  been  a  flush ; 
the  keeping  between  the  cheeks  and  the  hollows  of  the 
face  being  thus  preserved,  although  positive  colour  was 
gone.  Long  orange  rays  of  evening  sun  stole  in  through 
chinks  in  the  blind,  striking  on  the  large  mirror,  and 
being  thence  reflected  upon  the  crimson  hangings  and 
woodwork  of  the  heavy  bedstead,  so  that  the  general 
tone  of  light  was  remarkably  warm;  and  it  was  pro- 
bable that  something  might  be  due  to  this  circumstance. 
Still  the  fact  impressed  him  as  strange.  Charlson  had 
been  gone  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour :  could  it  be 
possible  that  he  had  left  too  soon,  and  that  his  attempts 
to  restore  her  had  operated  so  sluggishly  as  only  now  to 
have  made  themselves  felt  ?  Barnet  laid  his  hand  upon 
her  chest,  and  fancied  that  ever  and  anon  a  faint  flutter 
of  palpitation,  gentle  as  that  of  a  butterfly's  wing, 
disturbed  the  stillness  there — ceasing  for  a  time,  then 
struggling  to  go  on,  then  breaking  down  in  weakness 
and  ceasing  again. 

'34 


*--'  FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

Barnet's  mother  had  been  an  active  practitioner  of 
the  healing  art  among  her  poorer  neighbours,  and  her 
inspirations  had  all  been  derived  from  an  octavo  volume 
of  Domestic  Medicine,  which  at  this  moment  was  lying, 
as  it  had  lain  for  many  years,  on  a  shelf  in  Barnet's 
dressing-room.  He  hastily  fetched  it,  and  there  read 
under  the  head  •  Drowning : ' — 

'Exertions  for  the  recovery  of  any  person  who  has  not  been 
immersed  for  a  longer  period  than  half-an-hour  should  be  continued 
for  at  least  four  hours,  as  there  have  been  many  cases  in  which 
returning  life  has  made  itself  visible  even  after  a  longer  interval. 

'  Should,  however,  a  weak  action  of  any  of  the  organs  show  itself 
when  the  case  seems  almost  hopeless,  our  efforts  must  be  redoubled  ; 
the  feeble  spark  in  this  case  requires  to  be  solicited  ;  it  will  certainly 
disappear  imder  a  relaxation  of  labour.* 

Barnet  looked  at  his  watch ;  it  was  now  barely  two 
hours  and  a  half  from  the  time  when  he  had  first  heard 
of  the  accident.  He  threw  aside  the  book  and  turned 
quickly  to  reach  a  stimulant  which  had  previously  been 
used.  Pulling  up  the  blind  for  more  light,  his  eye 
glanced  out  of  the  window.  There  he  saw  that  red 
chimney  still  smoking  cheerily,  and  that  roof,  and 
through  the  roof  that  somebody.  His  mechanical 
movements  stopped,  his  hand  remained  on  the  blind- 
cord,  and  he  seemed  to  become  breathless,  as  if  he  had 
suddenly  found  himself  treading  a  high  rope. 

While  he  stood  a  sparrow  lighted  on  the  window- 
sill,  saw  him,  and  flew  away.  Next  a  man  and  a  dog 
walked  over  one  of  the  green  hills  which  bulged  above 
the  roofs  of  the  town.     But  Barnet  took  no  notice. 

We  may  wonder  what  were  the  exact  images  that 
passed  through  his  mind  during  those  minutes  of  gazing 
upon  Lucy  Savile's  house,  the  sparrow,  the  man  and 
the  dog,  and  Lucy  Savile's  house  again.  There  are 
honest  men  who  will  not  admit  to  their  thoughts,  even 
as  idle  hypr)theses,  views  of  the  future  that  assume  as 


WESSEX  TALES 

done  a  deed  which  they  would  recoil  from  doing ;  and 
there  are  other  honest  men  for  whom  moraUty  ends  at 
the  surface  of  their  own  heads,  who  will  deliberate 
what  the  first  will  not  so  much  as  suppose.  Barnet 
had  a  wife  whose  presejice  distracted  his  home ;  she 
now  lay  as  in  death;  by  merely  doing  nothing — by 
letting  the  intelligence  which  had  gone  forth  to  the 
world  lie  undisturbed — he  would  effect  such  a  deliver- 
ance for  himself  as  he  had  never  hoped  for,  and  open 
up  an  opportunity  of  which  till  now  he  had  never 
dreamed.  Whether  the  conjuncture  had  arisen  through 
any  unscrupulous,  ill-considered  impulse  of  Charlson  to 
help  out  of  a  strait  the  friend  who  was  so  kind  as  never 
to  press  him  for  what  was  due  could  not  be  told ; 
there  was  nothing  to  prove  it ;  and  it  was  a  question 
which  could  never  be  asked.  The  triangular  situation 
— himself — his  wife — Lucy  Savile — was  the  one  clear 
thing. 

From  Barnet's  actions  we  may  infer  that  he  supposed 
such  and  such  a  result,  for  a  moment,  but  did  not 
deliberate.  He  withdrew  his  hazel  eyes  from  the  scene 
without,  calmly  turned,  rang  the  bell  for  assistance, 
and  vigorously  exerted  himself  to  learn  if  life  still 
lingered  in  that  motionless  frame.  In  a  short  time 
another  surgeon  was  in  attendance ;  and  then  Barnet's 
surmise  proved  to  be  true.  The  slow  life  timidly 
heaved  again ;  but  much  care  and  patience  were  needed 
to  catch  and  retain  it,  and  a  considerable  period  elapsed 
before  it  could  be  said  with  certainty  that  Mrs.  Barnet 
lived.  When  this  was  the  case,  and  there  was  no 
further  room  for  doubt,  Barnet  left  the  chamber.  The 
blue  evening  smoke  from  Lucy's  chimney  had  died 
down  to  an  imperceptible  stream,  and  as  he  walked 
about  downstairs  he  murmured  to  himself,  '  My  wife 
was  dead,  and  she  is  alive  again.' 

It  was  not  so  with  Downe.  After  three  hours' 
immersion  his  wife's  body  had  been  recovered,  life,  of 

136 


i^'  FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

course,  being  quite  extinct.  Barnet  on  descending, 
went  straight  to  his  friend's  house,  and  there  learned 
the  result.  Downe  was  helpless  in  his  wild  grief, 
occasionally  even  hysterical.  Barnet  said  little,  but 
finding  that  some  guiding  hand  was  necessary  in  the 
sorrow-stricken  household,  took  upon  him  to  supervise 
and  manage  till  Downe  should  be  in  a  state  of  mind  to 
do  so  for  himself, 


VI 

vJnE  September  evening,  four  months  later,  when  Mrs. 
Barnet  was  in  perfect  health,  and  Mrs.  Downe  but  a 
weakening  memory,  an  errand-boy  paused  to  rest  him- 
self in  front  of  Mr.  Barnet's  old  house,  depositing  his 
basket  on  one  of  the  window-sills.  The  street  was  not 
yet  lighted,  but  there  were  lights  in  the  house,  and  at 
intervals  a  flitting  shadow  fell  upon  the  blind  at  his 
elbow.  Words  also  were  audible  from  the  same  apart- 
ment, and  they  seemed  to  be  those  of  persons  in  violent 
altercation.  But  the  boy  could  not  gather  their  purport, 
and  he  went  on  his  way. 

Ten  minutes  afterwards  the  door  of  Barnet's  house 
opened,  and  a  tall  closely- veiled  lady  in  a  travelling-dress 
came  out  and  descended  the  freestone  steps.  The 
servant  stood  in  the  doorway  watching  her  as  she 
went  with  a  measured  tread  down  the  street.  When 
she  had  been  out  of  sight  for  some  minutes  Barnet 
appeared  at  the  door  from  within. 

'  Did  your  mistress  leave  word  where  she  was 
going?*  he  asked. 

'  No,  sir.' 

'  Is  the  carriage  ordered  to  meet  her  anywhere  ?  * 

*No,  sir.' 

*  Did  she  take  a  latch-key  ? ' 

•  No,  sir.' 

138 


FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

Barnet  went  in  again,  sat  down  in  his  chair,  and 
leaned  back.  Then  in  solitude  and  silence  he  brooded 
over  the  bitter  emotions  that  filled  his  heart.  It  was 
for  this  that  he  had  gratuitously  restored  her  to  life, 
and  made  his  union  with  another  impossible  1  The 
evening  drew  on,  and  nobody  came  to  disturb  him.  At 
bedtime  he  told  the  servants  to  retire,  that  he  would 
sit  up  for  Mrs.  Barnet  himself;  and  when  they  were 
gone  he  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand  and  mused 
for  hours. 

The  clock  struck  one,  two;  still  his  wife  came  not, 
and,  with  impatience  added  to  depression,  he  went  from 
room  to  room  till  another  weary  hour  had  passed.  This 
was  not  altogether  a  new  experience  for  Barnet ;  but  she 
had  never  before  so  prolonged  her  absence.  At  last  he 
sat  down  again  and  fell  asleep. 

He  awoke  at  six  o'clock  to  find  that  she  had  not 
returned.  In  searching  about  the  rooms  he  discovered 
that  she  had  taken  a  case  of  jewels  which  had  been  hers 
before  her  marriage.  At  eight  a  note  was  brought  him ; 
it  was  from  his  wife,  in  which  she  stated  that  she  had 
gone  by  the  coach  to  the  house  of  a  distant  relative  near 
London,  and  expressed  a  wish  that  certain  boxes,  articles 
of  clothing,  and  so  on,  might  be  sent  to  her  forthwith. 
The  note  was  brought  to  him  by  a  waiter  at  the  Black- 
Bull  Hotel,  and  had  been  written  by  Mrs.  Barnet  imme- 
diately before  she  took  her  place  in  the  stage. 

By  the  evening  this  order  was  carried  out,  and 
Barnet,  with  a  sense  of  relief,  walked  out  into  the 
town.  A  fair  had  been  held  during  the  day,  and  the 
large  clear  moon  which  rose  over  the  most  prominent 
hill  flung  its  light  upon  the  booths  and  standings  that 
still  remained  in  the  street,  mixing  its  rays  curiously 
with  those  from  the  flaring  naphtha  lamps.  The  town 
was  full  of  country-people  who  had  come  in  to  enjoy 
themselves,  and  on  this  account  Barnet  strolled  through 
the  streets  unobserved.     With  a  certain  recklessness  he 

X39 


WESSEX  TALES 

made  for  the  harbour-road,  and  presently  found  himself 
by  the  shore,  where  he  walked  on  till  he  came  to  the 
spot  near  which  his  friend  the  kindly  Mrs.  Downe  had 
lost  her  life,  and  his  own  wife's  life  had  been  preserved. 
A  tremulous  pathway  of  bright  moonshine  now  stretched 
over  the  water  which  had  engulfed  them,  and  not  a 
living  soul  was  near. 

Here  he  ruminated  on  their  characters,  and  next  on 
the  young  girl  in  whom  he  now  took  a  more  sensitive 
interest  than  at  the  time  when  he  had  been  free  to 
marry  her.  Nothing,  so  far  as  he  was  aware,  had  ever 
appeared  in  his  own  conduct  to  show  that  such  an 
interest  existed.  He  had  made  it  a  point  of  the  utmost 
strictness  to  hinder  that  feeling  from  influencing  in  the 
faintest  degree  his  attitude  towards  his  wife;  and  this 
was  made  all  the  more  easy  for  him  by  the  small 
demand  Mrs.  Barnet  made  upon  his  attentions,  for 
which  she  ever  evinced  the  greatest  contempt ;  thus 
unwittingly  giving  him  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that 
their  severance  owed  nothing  to  jealousy,  or,  indeed, 
to  any  personal  behaviour  of  his  at  all.  Her  concern 
was  not  with  him  or  his  feelings,  as  she  frequently  told 
him;  but  that  she  had,  in  a  moment  of  weakness, 
thrown  herself  away  upon  a  common  burgher  when  she 
might  have  aimed  at,  and  possibly  brought  down,  a  peer 
of  the  realm.  Her  frequent  depreciation  of  Barnet  in 
these  terms  had  at  times  been  so  intense  that  he  was 
sorely  tempted  to  retaliate  on  her  egotism  by  owning  that 
he  loved  at  the  same  low  level  on  which  he  lived ;  but 
prudence  had  prevailed,  for  which  he  was  now  thankful. 

Something  seemed  to  sound  upon  the  shingle  behind 
him  over  and  above  the  raking  of  the  wave.  He  looked 
round,  and  a  slight  girlish  shape  appeared  quite  close  to 
him.  He  could  not  see  her  face  because  it  was  in  the 
direction  of  the  moon. 

'  Mr.  Barnet  ? '  the  rambler  said,  in  timid  surprise. 
The  voice  was  the  voice  of  Lucy  Savile. 

140 


1-,- 


FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 


'  Yes,'  said  Barnet.  '  How  can  I  repay  you  for  this 
pleasure  ? ' 

*  I  only  came  because  the  night  was  so  clear.  I  am 
now  on  my  way  home.' 

'I  am  glad  we  have  met.  I  want  to  know  if  you 
will  let  me  do  something  for  you,  to  give  me  an  occupa- 
tion, as  an  idle  man  ?  I  am  sure  I  ought  to  help  you, 
for  I  know  you  are  almost  without  friends.' 

She  hesitated.  'Why  should  you  tell  me  that?' 
she  said. 

'  In  the  hope  that  you  will  be  frank  with  me.' 

'  I  am  not  altogether  without  friends  here.  But  I 
am  going  to  make  a  little  change  in  my  life — to  go  out 
as  a  teacher  of  freehand  drawing  and  practical  perspec- 
tive, of  course  I  mean  on  a  comparatively  humble  scale, 
because  I  have  not  been  specially  educated  for  that 
profession.     But  I  am  sure  I  shall  like  it  much.' 

'  You  have  an  opening  ?  ' 

«I  have  not  exactly  got  it,  but  I  have  advertised 
for  one.' 

'  Lucy,  you  must  let  me  help  you ! ' 

'  Not  at  all.' 

'  You  need  not  think  it  would  compromise  you,  or 
that  I  am  indifferent  to  delicacy.  I  bear  in  mind  how 
we  stand.  It  is  very  unlikely  that  you  will  succeed  as 
teacher  of  the  class  you  mention,  so  let  me  do  some- 
thing of  a  different  kind  for  you.  Say  what  you  would 
like,  and  it  shall  be  done.' 

'  No ;  if  I  can't  be  a  drawing-mistress  or  governess, 
or  something  of  that  sort,  I  shall  go  to  India  and  join 
my  brother.' 

'  *  I  wish  I  could  go  abroad,  anywhere,  everywhere 
with  you,  Lucy,  and  leave  this  place  and  its  associations 
for  ever ! ' 

She  played  with  the  end  of  her  bonnet-string,  and 
hastily  turned  aside.  '  Don't  ever  touch  upon  that  kind 
of  topic  again,'  she  said,  with  a  quick  severity  not  free 

141 


WESSEX  TALES 

from  anger.  *  It  simply  makes  it  impossible  for  me  to 
see  you,  much  less  receive  any  guidance  from  you.  No, 
thank  you,  Mr.  Barnet ;  you  can  do  nothing  for  me  at 
present;  and  as  I  suppose  my  uncertainty  will  end  in 
my  leaving  for  India,  I  fear  you  never  will.  If  ever  I 
think  you  can  do  anything,  I  will  take  the  trouble  to  ask 
you.     Till  then,  good-bye.' 

The  tone  of  her  latter  words  was  equivocal,  and 
while  he  remained  in  doubt  whether  a  gentle  irony  was 
or  was  not  inwrought  with  their  sound,  she  swept  lightly 
round  and  left  him  alone.  He  saw  her  form  get  smaller 
and  smaller  along  the  damp  belt  of  sea-sand  between 
ebb  and  flood ;  and  when  she  had  vanished  round  the 
cliff  into  the  harbour-road,  he  himself  followed  in  the 
same  direction. 

That  her  hopes  from  an  advertisement  should  be  the 
single  thread  which  held  Lucy  Savile  in  England  was 
too  much  for  Barnet.  On  reaching  the  town  he  went 
straight  to  the  residence  of  Downe,  now  a  widower  with 
four  children.  The  young  motherless  brood  had  been 
sent  to  bed  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  earlier,  and  when 
Barnet  entered  he  found  Downe  sitting  alone.  It  was 
the  same  room  as  that  from  which  the  family  had  been 
looking  out  for  Downe  at  the  beginning  of  the  year, 
when  Downe  had  slipped  into  the  gutter  and  his  wife 
had  been  so  enviably  tender  towards  him.  The  old 
neatness  had  gone  from  the  house;  articles  lay  in  places 
which  could  show  no  reason  for  their  presence,  as  if 
momentarily  deposited  there  some  months  ago,  and 
forgotten  ever  since ;  there  were  no  flowers ;  things 
were  jumbled  together  on  the  furniture  which  should 
have  been  in  cupboards;  and  the  place  in  general  had 
that  stagnant,  unrenovated  air  which  usually  pervades 
the  maimed  home  of  the  widower. 

Downe  soon  renewed  his  customary  full-worded 
lament  over  his  wife,  and  even  when  he  had  worked 
himself  up  to  tears,  went  on  volubly,  as  if  a  listener 

14a 


iJ^.  FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

W2re  a  luxury  to   be  enjoyed  whenever  he   could  be 
caught, 

'She  was  a  treasure  beyond  compare,  Mr.  Barnet! 
I  shall  never  see  such  another.  Nobody  now  to  nurse 
me — nobody  to  console  me  in  those  daily  troubles,  you 
know,  Barnet,  which  make  consolation  so  necessary  to 
a  nature  like  mine.  It  would  be  unbecoming  to  re- 
pine, for  her  spirit's  home  was  elsewhere — the  tender 
light  in  her  eyes  always  showed  it;  but  it  is  a  long 
dreary  time  that  I  have  before  me,  and  nobody  else 
can  ever  fill  the  void  left  in  my  heart  by  her  loss — 
nobody — nobody ! '     And  Downe  wiped  his  eyes  again. 

*  She  was  a  good  woman  in  the  highest  sense,' 
gravely  answered  Barnet,  who,  though  Downe's  words 
drew  genuine  compassion  from  his  heart,  could  not 
help  feeling  that  a  tender  reticence  would  have  been  a 
finer  tribute  to  Mrs.  Downe's  really  sterling  virtues  than 
such  a  second-class  lament  as  this. 

•I  have  something  to  show  you,'  Downe  resumed, 
producing  from  a  drawer  a  sheet  of  paper  on  which 
was  an  elaborate  design  for  a  canopied  tomb.  'This 
has  been  sent  me  by  the  architect,  but  it  is  not  exactly 
what  I  want.' 

'  You  have  got  Jones  to  do  it,  I  see,  the  man  who  is 
carrying  out  my  house,'  said  Barnet,  as  he  glanced  at 
the  signature  to  the  drawing. 

'  Yes,  but  it  is  not  quite  what  I  want.  I  want  some- 
thing more  striking — more  like  a  tomb  I  have  seen  in 
St.  Paul's  Cathedral.  Nothing  less  will  do  justice  to  my 
feelings,  and  how  far  short  of  them  that  will  fall ! ' 

Barnet  privately  thought  the  design  a  sufficiently 
imposing  one  as  it  stood,  even  extravagantly  ornate; 
but,  feeling  that  he  had  no  right  to  criticize,  he  said 
gently,  •  Downe,  should  you  not  live  more  in  your 
children's  lives  at  the  present  time,  and  soften  the 
sharpness  of  regret  for  your  own  past  by  thinking  of 
their  future?' 

U3 


WESSEX  TALES 

*  Yes,  yes ;  but  what  can  I  do  more  ? '  asked  Downe, 
wrinkling  his  forehead  hopelessly. 

It  was  with  anxious  slowness  that  Barnet  produced 
his  reply — the  secret  object  of  his  visit  to-night.  '  Did 
you  not  say  one  day  that  you  ought  by  rights  to  get  a 
governess  for  the  children  ?  * 

Downe  admitted  that  he  had  said  so,  but  that  he 
could  not  see  his  way  to  it.  '  The  kind  of  woman  I 
should  like  to  have,'  he  said,  '  would  be  rather  beyond 
my  means.  No ;  I  think  I  shall  send  them  to  school 
in  the  town  when  they  are  old  enough  to  go  out  alone.' 

•  Now,  I  know  of  something  better  than  that.  The 
late  Lieutenant  Savile's  daughter,  Lucy,  wants  to  do 
something  for  herself  in  the  way  of  teaching.  She 
would  be  inexpensive,  and  would  answer  your  purpose 
as  well  as  anybody  for  six  or  twelve  months.  She 
would  probably  come  daily  if  you  were  to  ask  her,  and 
so  your  housekeeping  arrangements  would  not  be  much 
affected.* 

'  I  thought  she  had  gone  away,'  said  the  solicitor, 
musing.     *  Where  does  she  live  ? ' 

Barnet  told  him,  and  added  that,  if  Downe  should 
think  of  her  as  suitable,  he  would  do  well  to  call  as 
soon  as  possible,  or  she  might  be  on  the  wing.  '  If  you 
do  see  her,'  he  said,  '  it  would  be  advisable  not  to  men- 
tion my  name.  She  is  rather  stiff  in  her  ideas  of  me, 
and  it  might  prejudice  her  against  a  course  if  she  knew 
that  I  recommended  it.' 

Downe  promised  to  give  the  subject  his  considera- 
tion, and  nothing  more  was  said  about  it  just  then. 
But  when  Barnet  rose  to  go,  which  was  not  till  nearly 
bedtime,  he  reminded  Downe  of  the  suggestion  and 
went  up  the  street  to  his  own  solitary  home  with  a 
sense  of  satisfaction  at  his  promising  diplomacy  in  a 
charitable  cause. 


VII 

The  walls  of  his  new  house  were  carried  up  nearly 
to  their  full  height.  By  a  curious  though  not  infre- 
quent reaction,  Barnet's  feelings  about  that  unnecessary 
structure  had  undergone  a  change ;  he  took  considerable 
interest  in  its  progress  as  a  long-neglected  thing,  his 
wife  before  her  departure  having  grown  quite  weary  of 
it  as  a  hobby.  Moreover,  it  was  an  excellent  distraction 
for  a  man  in  the  unhappy  position  of  having  to  live  in 
a  provincial  town  with  nothing  to  do.  He  was  pro- 
bably the  first  of  his  line  who  had  ever  passed  a  day 
without  toil,  and  perhaps  something  like  an  inherited 
instinct  disqualifies  such  men  for  a  life  of  pleasant  in- 
action, such  as  lies  in  the  power  of  those  whose  leisure 
is  not  a  personal  accident,  but  a  vast  historical  accretion 
which  has  become  part  of  their  natures. 

Thus  Barnet  got  into  a  way  of  spending  many  of 
his  leisure  hours  on  the  site  of  the  new  building,  and  he 
might  have  been  seen  on  most  days  at  this  time  trying 
the  temper  of  the  mortar  by  punching  the  joints  with  his 
stick,  looking  at  the  grain  of  a  floor-board,  and  meditat- 
ing where  it  grew,  or  picturing  under  what  circumstances 
the  last  fire  would  be  kindled  in  the  at  present  sootless 
chimneys.  One  day  when  thus  occupied  he  saw  three 
children  pass  by  in  the  company  of  a  fair  young  woman, 
whose  sudden  appearance  caused  him  to  flush  perceptibly. 

145  * 


WESSEX  TALES 

«  Ah,  she  is  there,'  be  thought.  •  That's  a  blessed 
thing.' 

Casting  an  interested  glance  over  the  rising  building 
and  the  busy  workmen,  Lucy  Savile  and  the  little 
Downes  passed  by ;  and  after  that  time  it  became  a  re- 
gular though  almost  unconscious  custom  of  Barnet  to 
stand  in  the  half-completed  house  and  look  from  the 
ungarnished  windows  at  the  governess  as  she  tripped 
towards  the  sea-shore  with  her  young  charges,  which 
she  was  in  the  habit  of  doing  on  most  fine  afternoons. 
It  was  on  one  of  these  occasions,  when  he  had  been 
loitering  on  the  first-floor  landing,  near  the  hole  left 
for  the  staircase,  not  yet  erected,  that  there  appeared 
above  the  edge  of  the  floor  a  little  hat,  followed  by  a 
little  head. 

Barnet  withdrew  through  a  doorway,  and  the  child 
came  to  the  top  of  the  ladder,  stepping  on  to  the  floor 
and  crying  to  her  sisters  and  Miss  Savile  to  follow. 
Another  head  rose  above  the  floor,  and  another,  and 
then  Lucy  herself  came  into  view.  The  troop  ran 
hither  and  thither  through  the  empty,  shaving-strewn 
rooms,  and  Barnet  came  forward. 

Lucy  uttered  a  small  exclamation :  she  was  very 
sorry  that  she  had  intruded ;  she  had  not  the  least  idea 
that  Mr.  Barnet  was  there :  the  children  had  come  up, 
and  she  had  followed. 

Barnet  replied  that  he  was  only  too  glad  to  see  them 
there.     '  And  now,  let  me  show  you  the  rooms,'  he  said. 

She  passively  assented,  and  he  took  her  round. 
There  was  not  much  to  show  in  such  a  bare  skeleton 
of  a  house,  but  he  made  the  most  of  it,  and  explained 
the  different  ornamental  fittings  that  were  soon  to  be 
fixed  here  and  there.  Lucy  made  but  few  remarks  in 
reply,  though  she  seemed  pleased  with  her  visit,  and  stole 
away  down  the  ladder,  followed  by  her  companions. 

After  this  the  new  residence  became  yet  more  of  a 
hobby  for  Barnet.    Downe's  children  did  not  forget  their 

146 


iJ^.  FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

first  visit,  and  when  the  windows  were  glazed  and  the 
handsome  staircase  spread  its  broad  low  steps  into  the 
hall,  they  came  again,  prancing  in  unwearied  succession 
through  every  room  from  ground-floor  to  attics,  while 
Lucy  stood  waiting  for  them  at  the  door.  Barnet,  who 
rarely  missed  a  day  in  coming  to  inspect  progress, 
stepped  out  from  the  drawing  room. 

*I  could  not  keep  them  out,'  she  said,  with  an 
apologetic  blush.  •  I  tried  to  do  so  very  much  :  but 
they  are  rather  wilful,  and  we  are  directed  to  walk  this 
way  for  the  sea  air.' 

'  Do  let  them  make  the  house  their  regular  play- 
ground, and  you  yours,'  said  Barnet.  'There  is  no 
better  place  for  children  to  romp  and  take  their  exercise 
in  than  an  empty  house,  particularly  in  muddy  or  damp 
weather  such  as  we  shall  get  a  good  deal  of  now  ;  and 
this  place  will  not  be  furnished  for  a  long  long  time — 
perhaps  never.     I  am  not  at  all  decided  about  it.' 

'  O,  but  it  must ! '  replied  Lucy,  looking  round  at 
the  hall.  'The  rooms  are  excellent,  twice  as  high  as 
ours ;  and  the  views  from  the  windows  are  so  lovely.* 

'  I  daresay,  I  daresay,'  he  said  absently. 

« Will  all  the  furniture  be  new  ? '  she  asked. 

« All  the  furniture  be  new — that's  a  thing  I  have  not 
thought  of.  In  fact  I  only  come  here  and  look  on. 
My  father's  house  would  have  been  large  enough  for 
me,  but  another  person  had  a  voice  in  the  matter, 
and  it  was  settled  that  we  should  build.  However, 
the  place  grows  upon  me;  its  recent  associations  are 
cheerful,  and  I  am  getting  to  like  it  fast.' 

A  certain  uneasiness  in  Lucy's  manner  showed  that 
the  conversation  was  taking  too  personal  a  turn  for  her. 
•Still,  as  modern  tastes  develop,  people  require  more 
room  to  gratify  them  in,'  she  said,  withdrawing  to  call 
the  children ;  and  serenely  bidding  him  good  afternoon 
she  went  on  her  way. 

Barnet's  life  at  this  period  was  singularly  lonely,  and 

147 


WESSEX  TALES 

yet  he  was  happier  than  he  could  have  expected.  His 
wife's  estrangement  and  absence,  which  promised  to  be 
permanent,  left  him  free  as  a  boy  in  his  movements, 
and  the  solitary  walks  that  he  took  gave  him  ample 
opportunity  for  chastened  reflection  on  what  might  have 
been  his  lot  if  he  had  only  shown  wisdom  enough  to 
claim  Lucy  Savile  when  there  was  no  bar  between  their 
lives,  and  she  was  to  be  had  for  the  asking.  He  would 
occasionally  call  at  the  house  of  his  friend  Downe ;  but 
there  was  scarcely  enough  in  common  between  their  two 
natures  to  make  them  more  than  friends  of  that  excellent 
sort  whose  personal  knowledge  of  each  other's  history 
and  character  is  always  in  excess  of  intimacy,  whereby 
they  are  not  so  likely  to  be  severed  by  a  clash  of  senti- 
ment as  in  cases  where  intimacy  springs  up  in  excess  of 
knowledge.  Lucy  was  never  visible  at  these  times,  being 
either  engaged  in  the  school-room,  or  in  taking  an  airing 
out  of  doors ;  but,  knowing  that  she  was  now  comfort- 
able, and  had  given  up  the,  to  him,  depressing  idea 
of  going  off  to  the  other  side  of  the  globe,  he  was  quite 
content. 

The  new  house  had  so  far  progressed  that  the 
gardeners  were  beginning  to  grass  down  the  front. 
During  an  afternoon  which  he  was  passing  in  marking 
the  curve  for  the  carriage-drive,  he  beheld  her  coming 
in  boldly  towards  him  from  the  road.  Hitherto  Barnet 
had  only  caught  her  on  the  premises  by  stealth ;  and 
this  advance  seemed  to  show  that  at  last  her  reserve 
had  broken  down. 

A  smile  gained  strength  upon  her  face  as  she  ap- 
proached, and  it  was  quite  radiant  when  she  came  up, 
and  said,  without  a  trace  of  embarrassment,  *  I  find  I 
owe  you  a  hundred  thanks — and  it  comes  to  me  quite 
as  a  surprise !  It  was  through  your  kindness  that  I 
was  engaged  by  Mr.  Downe.  Believe  me,  Mr.  Birnet, 
I  did  not  know  it  until  yesterday,  or  I  should  have 
thanked  you  long  and  long  ago !  * 

148 


""  FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

*I  had  offended  you — ^just  a  trifle — at  the  time,  I 
think  ? '  said  Barnet,  smiling,  *  and  it  was  best  that  you 
should  not  know.' 

'Yes,  yes,'  she  returned  hastily,  *  Don't  allude  to 
that;  it  is  past  and  over,  and  we  will  let  it  be.  The 
house  is  finished  almost,  is  it  not?  How  beautiful  it 
will  look  when  the  evergreens  are  grown  !  Do  you  call 
the  style  Palladian,  Mr.  Barnet  ? ' 

'  I — really  don't  quite  know  what  it  is.  Yes,  it  must 
be  Palladian,  certainly.  But  I'll  ask  Jones,  the  architect ; 
for,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  had  not  thought  much  about  the 
style :  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  choosing  it,  I  am  sorry 
to  say.' 

She  would  not  let  him  harp  on  this  gloomy  refrain, 
and  talked  on  bright  matters  till  she  said,  producing  a 
small  roll  of  paper  which  he  had  noticed  in  her  hand  all 
the  while,  '  Mr.  Downe  wished  me  to  bring  you  this 
revised  drawing  of  the  late  Mrs.  Downe's  tomb,  which 
the  architect  has  just  sent  him.  He  would  like  you  to 
look  it  over.' 

The  children  came  up  with  their  hoops,  and  she  went 
off  with  them  down  the  harbour-road  as  usual.  Barnet 
had  been  glad  to  get  those  words  of  thanks ;  he  had 
been  thinking  for  many  months  that  he  would  like  her 
to  know  of  his  share  in  finding  her  a  home  such  as  it 
was ;  and  what  he  could  not  do  for  himself,  Downe  had 
now  kindly  done  for  him.  He  returned  to  his  desolate 
house  with  a  lighter  tread ;  though  in  reason  he  hardly 
knew  why  his  tread  should  be  light. 

On  examining  the  drawing,  Barnet  found  that,  in- 
stead of  the  vast  altar-tomb  and  canopy  Downe  had 
determined  on  at  their  last  meeting,  it  was  to  be  a  more 
modest  memorial  even  than  had  been  suggested  by  the 
architect ;  a  coped  tomb  of  good  solid  construction,  with 
no  useless  elaboration  at  all.  Barnet  was  truly  glad  to 
see  that  Downe  had  come  to  reason  of  his  own  accord ; 
and  he  returned  the  drawing  with  a  note  of  approval, 

149 


WESSEX  TALES 

Hi  followed  up  the  house- work  as  before,  and  as 
he  walked  up  and  down  the  rooms,  occasionally  gazing 
from  the  windows  over  the  bulging  green  hills  and  the 
quiet  harbour  that  lay  between  them,  he  murmured 
words  and  fragments  of  words,  which,  if  listened  to, 
would  have  revealed  all  the  secrets  of  his  existence. 
Whatever  his  reason  in  going  there,  Lucy  did  not  call 
again  :  the  walk  to  the  shore  seemed  to  be  abandoned  : 
he  must  have  thought  it  as  well  for  both  that  it  should 
be  so,  for  he  did  not  go  anywhere  out  of  his  accustomed 
ways  to  endeavour  to  discover  her. 


I 


VIII 

The  winter  and  the  spring  had  passed,  and  the  house 
was  complete.  It  was  a  fine  morning  in  the  early  part 
of  June,  and  Barnet,  though  not  in  the  habit  of  rising 
early,  had  taken  a  long  walk  before  breakfast ;  returning 
by  way  of  the  new  building.  A  sufficiently  exciting 
cause  of  his  restlessness  to-day  might  have  been  the 
intelligence  which  had  reached  him  the  night  before, 
that  Lucy  Savile  was  going  to  India  after  all,  and  not- 
withstanding the  representations  of  her  friends  that  such 
a  journey  was  unadvisable  in  many  ways  for  an  un- 
practised girl,  unless  some  more  definite  advantage  lay 
at  the  end  of  it  than  she  could  show  to  be  the  case. 
Barnet's  walk  up  the  slope  to  the  building  betrayed 
that  he  was  in  a  dissatisfied  mood.  He  hardly  saw 
that  the  dewy  time  of  day  lent  an  unusual  freshness 
to  the  bushes  and  trees  which  had  so  recently  put  on 
their  summer  habit  of  heavy  leafage,  and  made  his 
newly-laid  lawn  look  as  well  established  as  an  old 
manorial  meadow.  The  house  had  been  so  adroitly 
placed  between  six  tall  elms  which  were  growing  on 
the  site  beforehand,  that  they  seemed  like  real  ancestral 
trees  ;  and  the  rooks,  young  and  old,  cawed  melodiously 
to  their  visitor. 

The  door  was   not  locked,  and   he  entered.     No 
workmen  appeared  to  be  present,  and  he  walked  fi-om 


WESSEX  TALES 

sunny  window  to  sunny  window  of  the  empty  rooms, 
with  a  sense  of  seclusion  which  might  have  been  very 
pleasant  but  for  the  antecedent  knowledge  that  his 
almost  paternal  care  of  Lucy  Savile  was  to  be  thrown 
away  by  her  wilfulness.  Footsteps  echoed  through  an 
adjoining  room ;  and  bending  his  eyes  in  that  direc- 
tion, he  perceived  Mr.  Jones,  the  architect.  He  had 
come  to  look  over  the  building  before  giving  the  con- 
tractor his  final  certificate.  They  walked  over  the 
house  together.  Everything  was  finished  except  the 
papering :  there  were  the  latest  improvements  of  the 
period  in  bell-hanging,  ventilating,  smoke-jacks,  fire- 
grates, and  French  windows.  The  business  was  soon 
ended,  and  Jones,  having  directed  Barnet's  attention 
to  a  roll  of  wall-paper  patterns  which  lay  on  a  bench 
for  his  choice,  was  leaving  to  keep  another  engagement, 
when  Barnet  said,  '  Is  the  tomb  finished  yet  for  Mrs. 
Dovvne  ? ' 

'  Well — yes  :  it  is  at  last,'  said  the  architect,  coming 
back  and  speaking  as  if  he  were  in  a  mood  to  make 
a  confidence.  '  I  have  had  no  end  of  trouble  in  the 
matter,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  am  heartily  glad  it  is 
over.' 

Barnet  expressed  his  surprise.  *I  thought  poor 
Downe  had  given  up  those  extravagant  notions  of  his  ? 
then  he  has  gone  back  to  the  altar  and  canopy  after 
all  ?     Well,  he  is  to  be  excused,  poor  fellow !  * 

'O  no — he  has  not  at  all  gone  back  to  them — 
quite  the  reverse,'  Jones  hastened  to  say.  *  He  has  so 
reduced  design  after  design,  that  the  whole  thing  has 
been  nothing  but  waste  labour  for  me ;  till  in  the  end 
it  has  become  a  common  headstone,  which  a  mason  put 
up  in  half  a  day.' 

*  A  common  headstone  ?  *  said  Barnet. 

*Yes.  I  held  out  for  some  time  for  the  addition 
of  a  footstone  at  least.  But  he  said,  "O  no — he 
couldn't  afford  it." ' 

15a 


i-r-  FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

*Ah,  well — his  family  is  growing  up,  poor  fellow, 
and  his  expenses  are  getting  serious.' 

'  Yes,  exactly/  said  Jones,  as  if  the  subject  were 
none  of  his.  And  again  directing  Barnet's  attention  to 
the  wall-papers,  the  bustling  architect  left  him  to  keep 
some  other  engagement. 

'  A  common  headstone,'  murmured  Barnet,  left  again 
to  himself.  He  mused  a  minute  or  two,  and  next  began 
looking  over  and  selecting  from  the  patterns  ;  but  had 
not  long  been  engaged  in  the  work  when  he  heard 
another  footstep  on  the  gravel  without,  and  somebody 
enter  the  open  porch. 

Barnet  went  to  the  door — it  was  his  manservant  in 
search  of  him. 

'  I  have  been  trying  for  some  time  to  find  you,  sir,' 
he  said.  '  This  letter  has  come  by  the  post,  and  it  is 
marked  immediate.  And  there's  this  one  from  Mr. 
Downe,  who  called  just  now  wanting  to  see  you.'  He 
searched  his  pocket  for  the  second. 

Barnet  took  the  first  letter — it  had  a  black  border, 
and  bore  the  London  postmark.  It  was  not  in  his 
wife's  handwriting,  or  in  that  of  any  person  he  knew ; 
but  conjecture  soon  ceased  as  he  read  the  page,  where- 
in he  was  briefly  informed  that  Mrs.  Barnet  had  died 
suddenly  on  the  previous  day,  at  the  furnished  villa 
she  had  occupied  near  London. 

Barnet  looked  vaguely  round  the  empty  hall,  at  the 
blank  walls,  out  of  the  doorway.  Drawing  a  long  palpi- 
tating breath,  and  with  eyes  downcast,  he  turned  and 
climbed  the  stairs  slowly,  like  a  man  who  doubted  their 
stability.  The  fact  of  his  wife  having,  as  it  were,  died 
once  already,  and  Hved  on  again,  had  entirely  dislodged 
the  possibility  of  her  actual  death  from  his  conjecture. 
He  went  to  the  landing,  leant  over  the  balusters,  and 
after  a  reverie,  of  whose  duration  he  had  but  the  faintest 
notion,  turned  to  the  window  and  stretched  his  gaze  to 
the  cottage  further  down  the  road,  which  was  visible 

153 


WESSEX  TALES 

from  his  landing,  and  from  which  Lucy  still  walked 
to  the  solicitor's  house  by  a  cross  path.  The  faint 
words  that  came  from  his  moving  lips  were  simply,  '  At 
last ! ' 

Then,  almost  involuntarily,  Bamet  fell  down  on  his 
knees  and  murmured  some  incoherent  words  of  thanks- 
giving. Surely  his  virtue  in  restoring  his  wife  to  life 
had  been  rewarded !  But,  as  if  the  impulse  struck  un- 
easily on  his  conscience,  he  quickly  rose,  brushed  the 
dust  from  his  trousers,  and  set  himself  to  think  of  his 
next  movements.  He  could  not  start  for  London  for 
some  hours;  and  as  he  had  no  preparations  to  make 
that  could  not  be  made  in  half-an-hour,  he  mechanically 
descended  and  resumed  his  occupation  of  turning  over 
the  wall-papers.  They  had  all  got  brighter  for  him, 
those  papers.  It  was  all  changed — who  would  sit  in 
the  rooms  that  they  were  to  line?  He  went  on  to 
muse  upon  Lucy's  conduct  in  so  frequently  coming  to 
the  house  with  the  children;  her  occasional  blush  in 
speaking  to  him;  her  evident  interest  in  him.  What 
woman  can  in  the  long  run  avoid  being  interested 
in  a  man  whom  she  knows  to  be  devoted  to  her  ? 
If  human  solicitation  could  ever  effect  anything,  there 
should  be  no  going  to  India  for  Lucy  now.  All 
the  papers  previously  chosen  seemed  wrong  in  their 
shades,  and  he  began  from  the  beginning  to  choose 
again. 

While  entering  on  the  task  he  heard  a  forced  '  Ahem ! ' 
from  without  the  porch,  evidently  uttered  to  attract  his 
attention,  and  footsteps  again  advancing  to  the  door. 
His  man,  whom  he  had  quite  forgotten  in  his  mental 
turmoil,  was  still  waiting  there. 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,'  the  man  said  from  round 
the  doorway ;  '  but  here's  the  note  from  Mr.  Downe 
that  you  didn't  take.  He  called  just  after  you  went 
out,  and  as  he  couldn't  wait,  he  wrote  this  or  your 
study-table.* 

154 


i^' 


FELLOW  TOWNSMEN 


He  handed  in  the  letter — no  black-bordered  one 
now,  but  a  practical-looking  note  in  the  well-known 
writing  of  the  solicitor. 

•Dear  Barnet'— it  ran— *  Perhaps  you  will  be  prepared  for 
the  information  I  am  about  to  give — that  Lucy  Savile  and  myself 
are  going  to  be  married  this  morning.  I  have  hitherto  said  nothing 
as  to  my  intention  to  any  of  my  friends,  for  reasons  which  I  am  sure 
you  will  fully  appreciate.  The  crisis  has  been  brought  about  by 
her  expressing  her  intention  to  join  her  brother  in  India.  I  then 
discovered  that  I  could  not  do  without  her. 

'  It  is  to  be  quite  a  private  wedding  ;  but  it  is  my  particular  wish 
that  you  come  down  here  quietly  at  ten,  and  go  to  church  with  us  ; 
it  will  add  greatly  to  the  pleasure  I  shall  experience  in  the  cere- 
mony, and,  I  believe,  to  Lucy's  also.  I  have  called  on  you  very 
early  to  make  the  request,  in  the  belief  that  I  should  find  you  at 
home  ;  but  you  are  beforehand  with  me  in  your  early  rising. — Yours 
sincerely,  C.  Downe.' 

'Need  I  wait,  sir?*  said  the  servant  after  a  dead 
silence. 

'  That  will  do,  William.  No  answer,'  said  Barnet 
calmly. 

When  the  man  had  gone  Barnet  re-read  the  letter. 
Turning  eventually  to  the  wall-papers,  which  he  had 
been  at  such  pains  to  select,  he  deUberately  tore  them 
into  halves  and  quarters,  and  threw  them  into  the 
empty  fireplace.  Then  he  went  out  of  the  house,  locked 
the  door,  and  stood  in  the  front  awhile.  Instead  of 
returning  into  the  town,  he  went  down  the  harbour- 
road  and  thoughtfully  lingered  about  by  the  sea,  near 
the  spot  where  the  body  of  Downe's  late  wife  had  been 
found  and  brought  ashore. 

Barnet  was  a  man  with  a  rich  capacity  for  misery, 
and  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  exercised  it  to  its  fullest 
extent  now.  The  events  that  had,  as  it  were,  dashed 
themselves  together  into  one  half-hour  of  this  day 
showed  that  curious  refinement  of  cruelty  in  their 
arranj;ement  which  often  proceeds  from  the  bosom  of 

'55 


WESSEX  TALES 

the  whimsical  god  at  other  times  known  as  blind 
Circumstance.  That  his  few  minutes  of  hope,  between 
the  reading  of  the  first  and  second  letters,  had  carried 
him  to  extraordinary  heights  of  rapture  was  proved  by 
the  immensity  of  his  suffering  now.  The  sun  blazing 
into  his  face  would  have  shown  a  close  watcher  that  a 
horizontal  line,  which  he  had  never  noticed  before,  but 
which  was  never  to  be  gone  thereafter,  was  somehow 
gradually  forming  itself  in  the  smooth  of  his  forehead. 
His  eyes,  of  a  light  hazel,  had  a  curious  look  which  can 
only  be  described  by  the  word  bruised ;  the  sorrow  that 
looked  from  them  being  largely  mixed  with  the  surprise 
of  a  man  taken  unawares. 

The  secondary  particulars  of  his  present  position, 
too,  were  odd  enough,  though  for  some  time  they  ap- 
peared to  engage  little  of  his  attention.  Not  a  soul  in 
the  town  knew,  as  yet,  of  his  wife's  death ;  and  he 
almost  owed  Downe  the  kindness  of  not  publishing  it 
till  the  day  was  over :  the  conjuncture,  taken  with  that 
which  had  accompanied  the  death  of  Mrs.  Downe, 
being  so  singular  as  to  be  quite  sufficient  to  darken  the 
pleasure  of  the  impressionable  solicitor  to  a  cruel  extent, 
if  made  known  to  him.  But  as  Barnet  could  not  set 
out  on  his  journey  to  London,  where  his  wife  lay,  for 
some  hours  (there  being  at  this  date  no  railway  within 
a  distance  of  many  miles),  no  great  reason  existed  why 
he  should  leave  the  town. 

Impulse  in  all  its  forms  charactenzed  Barnet,  and 
when  he  heard  the  distant  clock  strike  the  hour  of  ten 
his  feet  began  to  carry  him  up  the  harbour-road  with 
the  manner  of  a  man  who  must  do  something  to  bring 
himself  to  life.  He  passed  Lucy  Savile's  old  house, 
his  own  new  one,  and  came  in  view  of  the  church. 
Now  he  gave  a  perceptible  start,  and  his  mechanical 
condition  went  away.  Before  the  church-gate  were  a 
couple  of  carriages,  and  Barnet  then  could  perceive  that 
the  marriage  between  Downe   and   Lucy  was  at   thai 

156 


1_'  FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

moment  being  solemnized  within.  A  feeling  of  sudden, 
proud  self-confidence,  an  indocile  wish  to  walk  un- 
moved in  spite  of  grim  environments,  plainly  possessed 
him,  and  when  he  reached  the  wicket-gate  he  turned  in 
without  apparent  effort.  Pacing  up  the  paved  footway 
he  entered  the  church  and  stood  for  a  while  in  the  nave 
passage.  A  group  of  people  was  standing  round  the 
vestry  door ;  Barnet  advanced  through  these  and  stepped 
into  the  vestry. 

There  they  were,  busily  signing  their  names.  Seeing 
Downe  about  to  look  round,  Barnet  averted  his  some- 
what disturbed  face  for  a  second  or  two;  when  he 
turned  again  front  to  front  he  was  calm  and  quite 
smiling ;  it  was  a  creditable  triumph  over  himself,  and 
deserved  to  be  remembered  in  his  native  town.  He 
greeted  Downe  heartily,  offering  his  congratulations. 

It  seemed  as  if  Barnet  expected  a  half-guilty  look 
upon  Lucy's  face;  but  no,  save  the  natural  flush  and 
flurry  engendered  by  the  service  just  performed,  there 
was  nothing  whatever  in  her  bearing  which  showed  a 
disturbed  mind :  her  gray-brown  eyes  carried  in  them 
now  as  at  other  times  the  well-known  expression  of 
common-sensed  rectitude  which  never  went  so  far  as 
to  touch  on  hardness.  She  shook  hands  with  him,  and 
Downe  said  warmly,  *  I  wish  you  could  have  come 
sooner:  I  called  on  purpose  to  ask  you.  You'll  drive 
back  with  us  now  ? ' 

'  No,  no,'  said  Barnet ;  '  I  am  not  at  all  prepared ; 
but  I  thought  I  would  look  in  upon  you  for  a  moment, 
even  though  I  had  not  time  to  go  home  and  dress.  I'll 
stand  back  and  see  you  pass  out,  and  observe  the  effect 
of  the  spectacle  upon  myself  as  one  of  the  public' 

Then  Lucy  and  her  husband  laughed,  and  Barnet 
laughed  and  retired ;  and  the  quiet  little  party  went 
gliding  down  the  nave  and  towards  the  porch,  Lucy's 
new  silk  dress  sweeping  with  a  smart  rustle  round  the 
base-mouldings  of  the  ancient  font,  and  Downe's  little 

157 


WESSEX  TALES 

daughters  following  in  a  state  of  round-eyed  interest 
in  their  position,  and  that  of  Lucy,  their  teacher  and 
friend. 

So  Downe  was  comforted  after  his  Emily's  death, 
which  had  taken  place  twelve  months,  two  weeks,  and 
three  days  before  that  time. 

When  the  two  flys  had  driven  off  and  the  spectators 
had  vanished,  Barnet  followed  to  the  door,  and  went 
out  into  the  sun.  He  took  no  more  trouble  to  preserve 
a  spruce  exterior;  his  step  was  unequal,  hesitating, 
almost  convulsive;  and  the  slight  changes  of  colour 
which  went  on  in  his  face  seemed  refracted  from  some 
inward  flame.  In  the  churchyard  he  became  pale  as  a 
summer  cloud,  and  finding  it  not  easy  to  proceed  he 
sat  down  on  one  of  the  tombstones  and  supported  his 
head  with  his  hand. 

Hard  by  was  a  sexton  filling  up  a  grave  which  he 
had  not  found  time  to  finish  on  the  previous  evening. 
Observing  Barnet,  he  went  up  to  him,  and  recognizing 
him,  said,  '  Shall  I  help  you  home,  sir  ? ' 

•  O  no,  thank  you,'  said  Barnet,  rousing  himself 
and  standing  up.  The  sexton  returned  to  his  grave, 
followed  by  Barnet,  who,  after  watching  him  awhile, 
stepped  into  the  grave^  now  nearly  filled,  and  helped  to 
tread  in  the  earth. 

The  sexton  apparently  thought  his  conduct  a  little 
singular,  but  he  made  no  observation,  and  when  the 
grave  was  full,  Barnet  suddenly  stopped,  -  looked  far 
away,  and  with  a  decided  step  proceeded  to  the  gate 
and  vanished.  The  sexton  rested  on  his  shovel  and 
looked  after  him  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  began 
banking  up  the  mound. 

In  those  short  minutes  of  treading  in  the  dead  man 
Barnet  had  formed  a  design,  but  what  it  was  the  in- 
habitants of  that  town  did  not  for  some  long  time 
imagine.  He  went  home,  wrote  several  letters  of  busi- 
ness, called  on  his  lawyer,  an  old  man  of  the  same 

158 


i_.  FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

place  who  had  been  the  legal  adviser  of  Barnet's  father 
before  him,  and  during  the  evening  overhauled  a  large 
quantity  of  letters  and  other  documents  in  his  posses- 
sion. By  eleven  o'clock  the  heap  of  papers  in  and 
before  Barnet's  grate  had  reached  formidable  dimen- 
sions, and  he  began  to  burn  them.  This,  owing  to 
their  quantity,  it  was  not  so  easy  to  do  as  he  had  ex- 
pected, and  he  sat  long  into  the  night  to  complete  the 
task. 

The  next  morning  Barnet  departed  for  London, 
leaving  a  note  for  Downe  to  inform  him  of  Mrs.  Barnet's 
sudden  death,  and  that  he  was  gone  to  bury  her ;  but 
when  a  thrice-sufficient  time  for  that  purpose  had 
elapsed,  he  was  not  seen  again  in  his  accustomed  walks, 
or  in  his  new  house,  or  in  his  old  one.  He  was  gone 
for  good,  nobody  knew  whither.  It  was  soon  dis- 
covered that  he  had  empowered  his  lawyer  to  dispose 
of  all  his  property,  real  and  personal,  in  the  borough, 
and  pay  in  the  proceeds  to  the  account  of  an  unknown 
person  at  one  of  the  large  London  banks.  The  person 
was  by  some  supposed  to  be  himself  under  an  assumed 
name ;  but  few,  if  any,  had  certain  knowledge  of  that 
fact. 

The  elegant  new  residence  was  sold  with  the  rest  of 
his  possessions ;  and  its  purchaser  was  no  other  than 
Downe,  now  a  thriving  man  in  the  borough,  and  one 
whose  growing  family  and  new  wife  required  more  roomy 
accommodation  than  was  afforded  by  the  little  house 
up  the  narrow  side  street.  Barnet's  old  habitation  was 
bought  by  the  trustees  of  the  Congregational  Baptist 
body  in  that  town,  who  pulled  down  the  time-honoured 
dwelling  and  built  a  new  chapel  on  its  site.  By  the 
time  the  last  hour  of  that,  to  Barnet,  eventful  year  had 
chimed,  every  vestige  of  him  had  disappeared  from  the 
precincts  of  his  native  place,  and  the  name  became 
extinct  in  the  borough  of  Port-Bredy,  after  having  been 
a  living  force  therein  for  more  than  two  hundred  years. 

«S9 


IX 

1  WENTY-ONE  years  and   six  months  do  not  pass 
A-ithout   setting  a   mark  even  upon  durable  stone  and 
triple  brass ;  upon  humanity  such  a  period  works  nothing 
less  than   transformation.      In   Barnet's   old  birthplace 
vivacious   young  children  with  bones  like  india-rubber 
had  grown  up  to  be  stable  men  and  women,  men  and 
women  had  dried  in  the  skin,  stiffened,  withered,  and 
sunk  into  decrepitude ;  while  selections  from  every  class 
had  been  consigned  to  the  outlying  cemetery.     Of  in- 
organic differences  the  greatest  was  that  a  railway  had 
invaded  the  town,  tying  it  on  to  a  main  line  at  a  junction 
a  dozen  miles  off.     Barnet's  house  on  the  harbour-road, 
once   so   insistently  new,   had  acquired   a   respectable 
mellowness,  with  ivy,  Virginia  creepers,  lichens,  damp 
patches,  and  even  constitutional  infirmities  of  its  own 
like  its  elder  fellows.      Its  architecture,  once  so  very 
improved  and  modern,  had  already  become  stale  in  style, 
without  having  reached  the  dignity  of  being  old-fashioned. 
Trees  about  the  harbour-road  had  increased  in  circum- 
ference or  disappeared  under  the  saw ;  while  the  church 
had  had  such  a  tremendous  practical  joke  played  upon 
it  by  some  facetious  restorer  or  other  as  to  be  scarce 
recognizable  by  its  dearest  old  friends. 

During  this  long  interval  George  Bamet  had  never 
once  been  seen  or  heard  of  in  the  town  of  his  fathers. 

J  60 


""  FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

It  was  the  evening  of  a  market-day,  and  some  half- 
dozen  middle-aged  farmers  and  dairymen  were  lounging 
round  the  bar  of  the  Black-Bull  Hotel,  occasionally 
dropping  a  remark  to  each  other,  and  less  frequently  to 
the  two  barmaids  who  stood  within  the  pewter-topped 
counter  in  a  perfunctory  attitude  of  attention,  these 
latter  sighing  and  making  a  private  observation  to  one 
another  at  odd  intervals,  on  more  interesting  experiences 
than  the  present. 

*  Days  get  shorter,'  said  one  of  the  dairymen,  as  he 
looked  towards  the  street,  and  noticed  that  the  lamp- 
lighter was  passing  by. 

The  farmers  merely  acknowledged  by  their  counte- 
nances the  propriety  of  this  remark,  and  finding  that 
nobody  else  spoke,  one  of  the  barmaids  said  '  yes,'  in  a 
tone  of  painful  duty. 

'  Come  fair-day  we  shall  have  to  light  up  before  we 
start  for  home-along.' 

'That's  true,'  his  neighbour  conceded,  with  a  gaze 
of  blankness. 

'  And  after  that  we  shan't  see  much  further  difference 
all's  winter.' 

The  rest  were  not  unwilling  to  go  even  so  far  as 
this. 

The  barmaid  sighed  again,  and  raised  one  of  her 
hands  from  the  counter  on  which  they  rested  to  scratch 
the  smallest  surface  of  her  face  with  the  smallest  of  her 
fingers.  She  looked  towards  the  door,  and  presently 
remarked,  '  I  think  I  hear  the  'bus  coming  in  from 
station.' 

The  eyes  of  the  dairymen  and  farmers  turned  to 
the  glass  door  dividing  the  hall  from  the  porch,  and  in 
a  minute  or  two  the  omnibus  drew  up  outside.  Then 
there  was  a  lumbering  down  of  luggage,  and  then  a  man 
came  into  the  hall,  followed  by  a  porter  with  a  port- 
manteau on  his  poll,  which  he  deposited  on  a  bench. 

The  stranger  was  an  elderly  person,  with  curly  ashen- 

l6i  L 


WESSEX  TALES 

white  hair,  a  deeply-creviced  outer  corner  to  each  eyelid, 
and  a  countenance  baked  by  innumerable  suns  to  the 
colour  of  terra-cotta,  its  hue  and  that  of  his  hair  con- 
trasting like  heat  and  cold  respectively.  He  walked 
meditatively  and  gently,  like  one  who  was  fearful  of  dis- 
turbing his  own  mental  equilibrium.  But  whatever  lay 
at  the  bottom  of  his  breast  had  evidently  made  him  so 
accustomed  to  its  situation  there  that  it  caused  him  little 
practical  inconvenience. 

He  paused  in  silence  while,  with  Tiis  dubious  eyes 
fixed  on  the  barmaids,  he  seemed  to  consider  himself. 
In  a  moment  or  two  he  addressed  them,  and  asked  to 
be  accommodated  for  the  night.  As  he  waited  he 
looked  curiously  round  the  hall,  but  said  nothing.  As 
soon  as  invited  he  disappeared  up  the  staircase,  pre- 
ceded by  a  chambermaid  and  candle,  and  followed  by  a 
lad  with  his  trunk.     Not  a  soul  had  recognized  him. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  when  the  farmers  and 
dairymen  had  driven  off  to  their  homesteads  in  the 
country,  he  came  downstairs,  took  a  biscuit  and  one 
glass  of  wine,  and  walked  out  into  the  town,  where  the 
radiance  from  the  shop-windows  had  grown  so  in  volume 
of  late  years  as  to  flood  with  cheerfulness  every  standing 
cart,  barrow,  stall,  and  idler  that  occupied  the  wayside, 
whether  shabby  or  genteel.  His  chief  interest  at  present 
seemed  to  lie  in  the  names  painted  over  the  shop-fronts 
and  on  door-ways,  as  far  as  they  were  visible;  these 
now  differed  to  an  ominous  extent  from  what  they  had 
been  one-and-twenty  years  before. 

The  traveller  passed  on  till  he  came  to  the  book- 
seller's, where  he  looked  in  through  the  glass  door.  A 
fresh-faced  young  man  was  standing  behind  the  counter, 
otherwise  the  shop  was  empty.  The  gray-haired  observer 
entered,  asked  for  some  periodical  by  way  of  paying  for 
admission,  and  with  his  elbow  on  the  counter  began 
to  turn  over  the  pages  he  had  bought,  though  that  he 
read  nothing  was  obvious. 

163 


«_'  FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

At  length  he  said,  *  Is  old  Mr.  Watkins  still  alive  ? ' 
in  a  voice  which  had  a  curious  youthful  cadence  in  it 
even  now. 

'  My  father  is  dead,  sir,'  said  the  young  man. 

'Ah,  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,'  said  the  stranger. 
•  But  it  is  so  many  years  since  I  last  visited  this  town 
that  I  could  hardly  expect  it  should  be  otherwise.' 
After  a  short  silence  he  continued — *  And  is  the  firm 
of  Barnet,  Browse,  and  Company  still  in  existence? — 
they  used  to  be  large  flax-merchants  and  twine-spinners 
here  ?  * 

'The   firm   is    still    going   on,    sir,    but   they   have 

dropped  the  name  of  Barnet.     I  believe  that  was  a  sort 

of  fancy  name — at  least,  I   never  knew  of  any  living 

Barnet.     'Tis  now  Browse  and  Co.' 

.  '  And  does  Andrew  Jones  still  keep  on  as  architect  ? ' 

*  He's  dead,  sir.' 

*  And  the  Vicar  of  St.  Mary's — Mr.  Melrose  ? ' 

*  He's  been  dead  a  great  many  years,' 

*  Dear  me ! '  He  paused  yet  longer,  and  cleared 
his  voice.  'Is  Mr.  Downe,  the  solicitor,  still  in 
practice  ? ' 

'No,  sir,  he's  dead.  He  died  about  seven  years 
ago.' 

Here  it  was  a  longer  silence  still ;  and  an  attentive 
observer  would  have  noticed  that  the  psper  in  the 
stranger's  hand  increased  its  imperceptible  tremor  to  a 
visible  shake.  That  gray-haired  gentleman  noticed  it 
himself,  and  rested  the  paper  on  the  counter.  '  Is 
Mrs.  Downe  still  alive  ? '  he  asked,  closing  his  lips 
firmly  as  soon  as  the  words  were  out  of  his  mouth,  and 
dropping  his  eyes. 

'  Yes,  sir,  she's  alive  and  well.  She's  living  at  the 
old  place.' 

'  In  East  Street  ? ' 

«0  no;  at  Chateau  Ringdale.  I  believe  it  has 
been  in  the  family  for  some  generations.' 

163 


WESSEX  TALES 

*  She  lives  with  her  children,  perhaps  ?  * 

'  No ;  she  has  no  children  of  her  own.  There  were 
some  Miss  Downes ;  I  think  they  were  Mr.  Downe's 
daughters  by  a  former  wife;  but  they  are  married  and 
living  in  other  parts  of  the  town.  Mrs.  Downe  lives 
alone.' 

'  Quite  alone  ?  * 

'  Yes,  sir ;  quite  alone.' 

The  newly-arrived  gentleman  went  back  to  the  hotel 
and  dined;  after  which  he  made  some  change  in  his 
dress,  shaved  back  his  beard  to  the  fashion  that  had 
prevailed  twenty  years  earlier,  when  he  was  young  and 
interesting,  and  once  more  emerging,  bent  his  steps  in 
the  direction  of  the  harbour-road.  Just  before  getting 
to  the  point  where  the  pavement  ceased  and  the  houses 
isolated  themselves,  he  overtook  a  shambling,  stooping, 
unshaven  man,  who  at  first  sight  appeared  like  a  pro- 
fessional tramp,  his  shoulders  having  a  perceptible 
greasiness  as  they  passed  under  the  gaslight.  Each 
pedestrian  momentarily  turned  and  regarded  the  other, 
and  the  tramp-like  gentleman  started  back. 

'Good — why — is  that  Mr.  Barnet?  'Tis  Mr. 
Barnet,  surely ! ' 

'  Yes  ;  and  you  are  Charlson  ? ' 

'Yes — ah — you  notice  my  appearance.  The  Fates 
have  rather  ill-used  me.  By-the-bye,  that  fifty  pounds. 
I  never  paid  it,  did  I  ?  .  .  .  But  I  was  not  ungrateful ! ' 
Here  the  stooping  man  laid  one  hand  emphatically 
on  the  palm  of  the  other.  '  I  gave  you  a  chance,  Mr. 
George  Barnet,  which  many  men  would  have  thought 
full  value  received — the  chance  to  marry  your  Lucy. 
As  far  as  the  world  was  concerned,  your  wife  was  a 
drowned  woman,  hey  ?  ' 

*  Heaven  forbid  all  that,  Charlson  ! ' 

*  Well,  well,  'twas  a  wrong  way  of  showing  gratitude, 
T  suppose.  And  now  a  drop  of  something  to  drink  for 
old  acquaintance'  sakel     And  Mr.  Barnet,  she's  again 

164 


i-^' 


FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

free — there's  a  chance  now  if  you  care  for  it — ha,  ha !  * 
And  the  speaker  pushed  his  tongue  into  his  hollow 
cheek  and  slanted  his  eye  in  the  old  fashion. 

'  I  know  all,'  said  Barnet  quickly ;  and  slipping  a 
small  present  into  the  hands  of  the  needy,  saddening 
man,  he  stepped  ahead  and  was  soon  in  the  outskirts 
of  the  town. 

He  reached  the  harbour-road,  and  paused  before 
the  entrance  to  a  well-known  house.  It  was  so  highly 
bosomed  in  trees  and  shrubs  planted  since  the  erection 
of  the  building  that  one  would  scarcely  have  recognized 
the  spot  as  that  which  had  been  a  mere  neglected  slope 
till  chosen  as  a  site  for  a  dwelling.  He  opened  the 
swing-gate,  closed  it  noiselessly,  and  gently  moved  into 
the  semicircular  drive,  which  remained  exactly  as  it  had 
been  marked  out  by  Barnet  on  the  morning  when  Lucy 
Savile  ran  in  to  thank  him  for  procuring  her  the  post 
of  governess  to  Downe's  children.  But  the  growth  of 
trees  and  bushes  which  revealed  itself  at  every  step 
was  beyond  all  expectation ;  sun-proof  and  moon-proof 
bowers  vaulted  the  walks,  and  the  walls  of  the  house 
were  uniformly  bearded  with  creeping  plants  as  high  as 
the  first-floor  windows. 

After  lingering  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  dusk  of  the 
bending  boughs,  the  visitor  rang  the  door-bell,  and  on 
the  servant  appearing,  he  announced  himself  as  '  an  old 
friend  of  Mrs.  Downe's.' 

The  hall  was  lighted,  but  not  brightly,  the  gas  being 
turned  low,  as  if  visitors  were  rare.  There  was  a  stagna- 
tion in  the  dwelling :  it  seemed  to  be  waiting.  Could 
it  really  be  waiting  for  him  ?  The  partitions  which  had 
been  probed  by  Barnet's  walking-stick  when  the  mortar 
was  green,  were  now  quite  brown  with  the  antiquity  of 
their  varnish,  and  the  ornamental  woodwork  of  the 
staircase,  which  had  glistened  with  a  pale  yellow  new- 
ness when  first  erected,  was  now  of  a  rich  wine-colour. 
During   the   servant's   absence  the   following   colloquy 

i6s 


ATESSEX  TALES 

could  be  dimly  heard  through  the  nearly  closed  door  of 

the  drawing-room. 

'  He  didn't  give  his  name  ? ' 

'  He  only  said  "  an  old  friend,"  ma'am.' 

'  What  kind  of  gentleman  is  he  ? ' 

*  A  staidish  gentleman,  with  gray  hair.* 

The  voice  of  the  second  speaker  seemed  to  affect 
the  hstener  greatly.  After  a  pause,  the. lady  said,  '  Very 
well,  I  will  see  him.' 

And  the  stranger  was  shown  in  face  to  face  with  the 
Lucy  who  had  once  been  Lucy  Savile.  The  round 
cheek  of  that  formerly  young  lady  had,  of  course,  alarm- 
ingly flattened  its  curve  in  her  modern  representative ;  a 
pervasive  grayness  overspread  her  once  dark  brown  hair, 
like  morning  rime  on  heather.  The  parting  down  the 
middle  was  wide  and  jagged ;  once  it  had  been  a  thin 
white  line,  a  narrow  crevice  between  two  high  banks  of 
shade.  But  there  was  still  enough  left  to  form  a  hand- 
some knob  behind,  and  some  curls  beneath  inwrought 
with  a  few  hairs  like  silver  wires  were  very  becoming. 
In  her  eyes  the  only  modification  was  that  their  originally 
mild  rectitude  of  expression  had  become  a  little  more 

stringent  than  heretofore.     Yet  she  was  still  girlish a 

girl  who  had  been  gratuitously  weighted  by  destiny  with 
a  burden  of  five-and-forty  years  instead  of  her  proper 
twenty. 

*Lucy,  don't  you  know  me?'  he  said,  when  the 
servant  had  closed  the  door. 

*  I  knew  you  the  instant  I  saw  you !  *  she  returned 
cheerfully.  'I  don't  know  why,  but  I  always  thought 
you  would  come  back  to  your  old  town  again.' 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  then  they  sat  down. 
♦  They  said  you  were  dead,'  continued  Lucy, '  but  I  never 
thought  so.  We  should  have  heard  of  it  for  certain 
if  you  had  been.' 

*  It  is  a  very  long  time  since  we  met.' 

•  Yes ;  what  you  must  have  seen,  Mr.  Barnet,  in  all 

1 66 


FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

these  roving  yean,  in  comparison  with  what  I  have  seen 
in  this  quiet  place ! '  Her  face  grew  more  serious. 
*  You  know  my  husband  has  been  dead  a  long  time  ? 
I  am  a  lonely  old  woman  now,  considering  what  I  have 
been;  though  Mr.  Downe's  daughters — all  married — 
manage  to  keep  me  pretty  cheerful.' 

*  And  I  am  a  lonely  old  man,  and  have  been  any 
time  these  twenty  years.' 

*  But  where  have  you  kept  yourself?  And  why  did 
you  go  off  so  mysteriously  ? ' 

'  Well,  Lucy,  I  have  kept  myself  a  little  in  America, 
and  a  Httle  in  Australia,  a  little  in  India,  a  little  at  the 
Cape,  and  so  on ;  I  have  not  stayed  in  any  place  for 
a  long  time,  as  it  seems  to  me,  and  yet  more  than 
twenty  years  have  flown.  But  when  people  get  to  my 
age  two  years  go  like  one ! — Your  second  question,  why 
did  I  go  away  so  mysteriously,  is  surely  not  necessary. 
Y'ou  guessed  why,  didn't  you  ?  * 

'  No,  I  never  once  guessed,'  she  said  simply ;  ♦  nor 
did  Charies,  nor  did  anybody  as  far  as  I  know.' 

*  Well,  indeed  !  Now  think  it  over  again,  and  then 
look  at  me,  and  say  if  you  can't  guess  ?  * 

She  looked  him  in  the  face  with  an  inquiring  smile. 
♦Surely  not  because  of  me?'  she  said,  pausing  at  the 
commencement  of  surprise. 

Barnet  nodded,  and  smiled  again ;  but  his  smile  was 
sadder  than  hers. 

*  Because  I  married  Charles  ? '  she  asked. 

'  Yes ;  solely  because  you  married  him  on  the  day 
I  was  free  to  ask  you  to  marry  me.  My  wife  died  four- 
and-twenty  hours  before  you  went  to  church  with  Downe. 
The  fixing  of  my  journey  at  that  particular  moment  was 
because  of  her  funeral ;  but  once  away  I  knew  I  should 
have  no  inducement  to  come  back,  and  took  my  steps 
accordingly.' 

Her  face  assumed  an  aspect  of  gentle  reflection^  and 
she  looked  up  and  down  his  form  with  great  interest 

M  167 


WESSEX  TALES 

in  her  eyes.  *  I  never  thought  of  it !  *  she  said.  *  I 
knew,  of  course,  that  you  had  once  impHed  some  warmth 
of  feeling  towards  me,  but  I  concluded  that  it  passed 
off.  And  I  have  always  been  under  the  impression 
that  your  wife  was  alive  at  the  time  of  my  marriage. 
Was  it  not  stupid  of  me ! — But  you  will  have  some  tea 
or  something?  I  have  never  dined  late,  you  know, 
since  my  husband's  death.  I  have  got  into  the  way 
of  making  a  regular  meal  of  tea.  You  will  have  some 
tea  with  me,  will  you  not  ?  * 

The  travelled  man  assented  quite  readily,  and  tea 
was  brought  in.  They  sat  and  chatted  over  the  meal, 
regardless  of  the  flying  hour.  *  Well,  well  1 '  said  Barnet 
presently,  as  for  the  first  time  he  leisurely  surveyed  the 
room ;  '  how  like  it  all  is,  and  yet  how  different !  Just 
where  your  piano  stands  was  a  board  on  a  couple  of 
trestles,  bearing  the  patterns  of  wall-papers,  when  I  was 
last  here.  I  was  choosing  them — standing  in  this  way, 
as  it  might  be.  Then  my  servant  came  in  at  the  door, 
and  handed  me  a  note,  so.  It  was  from  Downe,  and 
announced  that  you  were  just  going  to  be  married  to 
him.  I  chose  no  more  wall-papers — tore  up  all  those 
I  had  selected,  and  left  the  house.  I  never  entered  it 
again  till  now.' 

*  Ah,  at  last  I  understand  it  all,'  she  murmured. 

They  had  both  risen  and  gone  to  the  fireplace.  The 
mantel  came  almost  on  a  level  with  her  shoulder,  which 
gently  rested  against  it,  and  Barnet  laid  his  hand  upon 
the  shelf  close  beside  her  shoulder.  'Lucy,'  he  said, 
*  better  late  than  never.     Will  you  marry  me  now  ? ' 

She  started  back,  and  the  surprise  which  was  so 
obvious  in  her  wrought  even  greater  surprise  in  him 
that  it  should  be  so.  It  was  difficult  to  believe  that 
she  had  been  quite  blind  to  the  situation,  and  yet  all 
reason  and  common  sense  went  to  prove  that  she  was 
not  acting. 

'  You  take  me  quite  unawares  by  such  a  question  1 ' 

1 68 


FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

she  said,  with  a  forced  laugh  of  uneasiness.  It  was 
the  first  time  she  had  shown  any  embarrassment  at 
all.  •  Why,'  she  added,  *  I  couldn't  marry  you  for  the 
world.' 

•  Not  after  all  this  !     Why  not  ?  » 

*It  is — I  would — I  really  think  I  may  say  it — I 
would  upon  the  whole  rather  marry  you,  Mr.  Barnet, 
than  any  other  man  I  have  ever  met,  if  I  ever  dreamed 
of  marriage  again.  But  I  don't  dream  of  it — it  is  quite 
out  of  my  thoughts ;  I  have  not  the  least  intention  of 
marrying  again.' 

<  But — on  my  account — couldn't  you  alter  your  plans 
a  little  ?     Come ! ' 

'  Dear  Mr.  Barnet,*  she  said  with  a  httle  flutter,  *  I 
would  on  your  account  if  on  anybody's  in  existence. 
But  you  don't  know  in  the  least  what  it  is  you  are 
asking  —  such  an  impracticable  thing  —  I  won't  say 
ridiculous,  of  course,  because  I  see  that  you  are  really 
in  earnest,  and  earnestness  is  never  ridiculous  to  my 
mind.' 

'Well,  yes,*  said  Barnet  more  slowly,  dropping  her 
hand,  which  he  had  taken  at  the  moment  of  pleading, 
'  I  am  in  earnest.  The  resolve,  two  months  ago,  at  the 
Cape,  to  come  back  once  more  was,  it  is  true,  rather 
sudden,  and  as  I  see  now,  not  well  considered.  But 
I  am  in  earnest  in  asking.* 

*  And  I  in  declining.  With  all  good  feeling  and  all 
kindness,  let  me  say  that  I  am  quite  opposed  to  the 
idea  of  marrying  a  second  time.' 

♦Well,  no  harm  has  been  done,*  he  answered,  with 
the  same  subdued  and  tender  humorousness  that  he 
had  shown  on  such  occasions  in  early  life.  '  If  you 
really  won't  accept  me,  I  must  put  up  with  it,  I  sup- 
pose.* His  eye  fell  on  the  clock  as  he  spoke.  *  Had 
you  any  notion  that  it  was  so  late  ?  *  he  asked.  *  How 
absorbed  I  have  been  !  * 

She  accompanied  him  to  the  hall,  helped  him  to 

169 


WESSEX  TALES 

put  on  his  overcoat,  and  let  him  out  of  the  house 

herself. 

'Good-night,'  said  Barnet,  on  the  doorstep,  as  the 
lamp  shone  in  his  face.  '  You  are  not  oifended  with 
me?' 

•  Certainly  not.     Nor  you  with  me  ? ' 

*  I'll  consider  whether  I  am  or  not,*  he  pleasantly 
replied.     *  Good-night.' 

She  watched  him  safely  through  the  gate ;  and  when 
his  footsteps  had  died  away  upon  the  road,  closed  the 
door  softly  and  returned  to  the  room.  Here  the  modest 
widow  long  pondered  his  speeches,  with  eyes  dropped 
to  an  unusually  low  level.  Barnet's  urbanity  under 
the  blow  of  her  refusal  greatly  impressed  her.  After 
having  his  long  period  of  probation  rendered  useless 
by  her  decision,  he  had  shown  no  anger,  and  had  philo- 
sophically taken  her  words  as  if  he  deserved  no  better 
ones.  It  was  very  gentlemanly  of  him,  certainly;  it 
was  more  than  gentlemanly ;  it  was  heroic  and  grand. 
The  more  she  meditated,  the  more  she  questioned  the 
virtue  of  her  conduct  in  checking  him  so  peremptorily ; 
and  went  to  her  bedroom  in  a  mood  of  dissatisfaction. 
On  looking  in  the  glass  she  was  reminded  that  there 
was  not  so  much  remaining  of  her  former  beauty  as  to 
make  his  frank  declaration  an  impulsive  natural  homage 
to  her  cheeks  and  eyes ;  it  must  undoubtedly  have 
arisen  from  an  old  staunch  feeling  of  his,  deserving 
tenderest  consideration.  She  recalled  to  her  mind  with 
much  pleasure  that  he  had  told  her  he  was  staying  at 
the  Black-Bull  Hotel ;  so  that  if,  after  waiting  a  day  or 
two,  he  should  not,  in  his  modesty,  call  again,  she 
might  then  send  him  a  nice  little  note.  To  alter  her 
views  for  the  present  was  far  from  her  intention ;  but 
she  would  allow  herself  to  be  induced  to  reconsider  the 
case,  as  any  generous  woman  ought  to  do. 

The  morrow  came  and  passed,  and  Mr.  Barnet  did 
not  drop  in.     At  every  knock,  light  youthful  hues  flew 

170 


■*— .' 


FELLOW-TOWNSMEN 

across  her  cheek;  and  she  was  abstracted  in  the 
presence  of  her  other  visitors.  In  the  evening  she 
walked  about  the  house,  not  knowing  what  to  do  with 
herself;  the  conditions  of  existence  seemed  totally  dif- 
ferent from  those  which  ruled  only  four-and-twenty 
short  hours  ago.  What  had  been  at  first  a  tantalizing 
elusive  sentiment  was  getting  accHmatized  within  her 
as  a  definite  hope,  and  her  person  was  so  informed  by 
that  emotion  that  she  might  almost  have  stood  as  its 
emblematical  representative  by  the  time  the  clock  struck 
ten.  In  short,  an  interest  in  Barnet  precisely  resem- 
bling that  of  her  early  youth  led  her  present  heart  to 
belie  her  yesterday's  words  to  him,  and  she  longed  to 
see  him  again. 

The  next  day  she  walked  out  early,  thinking  she 
might  meet  him  in  the  street.  The  growing  beauty  of 
her  romance  absorbed  her,  and  she  went  from  the  street 
to  the  fields,  and  from  the  fields  to  the  shore,  without 
any  consciousness  of  distance,  till  reminded  by  her 
weariness  that  she  could  go  no  further.  He  had 
nowhere  appeared.  In  the  evening  she  took  a  step 
which  under  the  circumstances  seemed  justifiable ;  she 
wrote  a  note  to  him  at  the  hotel,  inviting  him  to  tea 
with  her  at  six  precisely,  and  signing  her  note  '  Lucy.' 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  messenger  came  back. 
Mr.  Barnet  had  left  the  hotel  early  in  the  morning  of 
the  day  before,  but  he  had  stated  that  he  would  pro- 
bably return  in  the  course  of  the  week. 

The  note  was  sent  back,  to  be  given  to  him  immedi- 
ately on  his  arrival. 

There  was  no  sign  from  the  inn  that  this  desired 
event  had  occurred,  either  on  the  next  day  or  the  day 
following.  On  both  nights  she  had  been  restless,  and 
had  scarcely  slept  half-an-hour. 

On  the  Saturday,  putting  off  all  diffidence,  Lucy 
went  herself  to  the  Black-Bull,  and  questioned  the  staff 
closely. 

17* 


WESSEX  TALES 

Mr.  Barnet  "had  cursorily  remarked  when  leaving 
that  he  might  return  on  the  Thursday  or  Friday,  but 
they  were  directed  not  to  reserve  a  room  for  him  unless 
he  should  write. 

He  had  left  no  address. 

Lucy  sorrowfully  took  back  her  note,  went  home, 
and  resolved  to  wait. 

She  did  wait — years  and  years — but  Barnet  never 
reappeared. 

April  iS8a 


tNTERLOFBRS  AT  THE  KNAP 


INTERLOPERS  A  T  THE  KNAP 


The  north  road  from  Casterbridge  is  tedious  and 
lonely,  especially  in  winter-time.  Along  a  part  of  its 
course  it  connects  v.ith  Long- Ash  Lane,  a  monotonous 
track  without  a  village  or  hamlet  for  many  miles,  and 
with  very  seldom  a  turning.  Unapprized  wayfarers  who 
are  too  old,  or  too  young,  or  in  other  respects  too 
weak  for  the  distance  to  be  traversed,  but  who,  never- 
theless, have  to  walk  it,  say,  as  they  look  wistfully 
ahead,  '  Once  at  the  top  of  that  hill,  and  I  must  surely 
see  the  end  of  Long-Ash  Lane ! '  But  they  reach  the 
hilltop,  and  Long-Ash  Lane  stretches  in  front  as  merci- 
lessly as  before. 

Some  few  years  ago  a  certain  farmer  was  riding 
through  this  lane  in  the  gloom  of  a  winter  evening. 
The  farmer's  friend,  a  dairyman,  was  riding  beside  him. 
A  few  paces  in  the  rear  rode  the  farmer's  man.  All 
three  were  well  horsed  on  strong,  round-barrelled  cobs ; 
and  to  be  well  horsed  was  to  be  in  better  spirits  about 
Long-Ash  Lane  than  poor  pedestrians  could  attain  to 
during  its  passage. 

But  the  farmer  did  not  talk  much  to  his  friend  as 
he  rode  along.     The  enterprise  which  had  brought  him 

»75 


WESSEX  TALES 

there  filled  his  mind ;  for  in  truth  it  was  important. 
Not  altogether  so  important  was  it,  perhaps,  when  esti- 
mated by  its  value  to  society  at  large ;  but  if  the  true 
measure  of  a  deed  be  proportionate  to  the  space  it 
occupies  in  the  heart  of  him  who  undertakes  it,  Farmer 
Charles  Darton's  business  to-night  could  hold  its  own 
with  the  business  of  kings. 

He  was  a  large  farmer.  His  turnover,  as  it  is  called, 
was  probably  thirty  thousand  pounds  a  year.  He  had 
a  great  many  draught  horses,  a  great  many  milch  cows, 
and  of  sheep  a  multitude.  This  comfortable  position 
was,  however,  none  of  his  own  making.  It  had  been 
created  by  his  father,  a  man  of  a  very  different  stamp 
from  the  present  representative  of  the  line. 

Darton,  the  father,  had  been  a  one-idea'd  character, 
with  a  buttoned-up  pocket  and  a  chink-like  eye  brim- 
ming with  commercial  subtlety.  In  Darton  the  son, 
this  trade  subtlety  had  become  transmuted  into  emo- 
tional, and  the  harshness  had  disappeared;  he  would 
have  been  called  a  sad  man  but  for  his  constant  care 
not  to  divide  himself  from  lively  friends  by  piping  notes 
out  of  harmony  with  theirs.  Contemplative,  he  allowed 
his  mind  to  be  a  quiet  meeting- place  for  memories  and 
hopes.  So  that,  naturally  enough,  since  succeeding  to 
the  agricultural  calling,  and  up  to  his  present  age  of 
thirty-two,  he  had  neither  advanced  nor  receded  as  a 
capitalist — a  stationary  result  which  did  not  agitate  one 
of  his  unambitious,  unstrategic  nature,  since  he  had 
all  that  he  desired.  The  motive  of  his  expedition  to- 
night showed  the  same  absence  of  anxious  regard  for 
Number  One. 

The  party  rode  on  in  the  slow,  safe  trot  proper  to 
night-time  and  bad  roads.  Farmer  Darton's  head  jigging 
rather  unromantically  up  and  down  against  the  sky,  and 
his  motions  being  repeated  with  bolder  emphasis  by  his 
friend  Japheth  Johns;  while  those  of  the  latter  were 
travestied  in  jerks   still    less   softened  by  art  in  the 

176 


«-,' 


INTERLOPERS  AT  THE  KNAP 

person  of  the  lad  who  attended  them.  A  pair  of  whitish 
objects  hung  one  on  each  side  of  the  latter,  bumping 
against  him  at  each  step,  and  still  further  spoiling  the 
grace  of  his  seat.  On  close  inspection  they  might  have 
been  perceived  to  be  open  rush  baskets — one  containing 
a  turkey,  and  the  other  some  bottles  of  wine. 

'  D'ye  feel  ye  can  meet  your  fate  like  a  man,  neighbour 
Darton?'  asked  Johns,  breaking  a  silence  which  had  lasted 
while  five-and-twenty  hedgerow  trees  had  ghded  by. 

Mr.  Darton  with  a  half-laugh  murmured,  '  Ay — call 
it  my  fate!  Hanging  and  wiving  go  by  destiny.'  And 
then  they  were  silent  again. 

The  darkness  thickened  rapidly,  at  intervals  shutting 
down  on  the  land  in  a  perceptible  flap,  like  the  wave  of 
a  wing.  The  customary  close  of  day  was  accelerated 
by  a  simultaneous  blurring  of  the  air.  With  the  fall  of 
night  had  come  a  mist  just  damp  enough  to  incommode, 
but  not  sufficient  to  saturate  them.  Countrymen  as 
they  were — born,  as  may  be  said,  with  only  an  open 
door  between  them  and  the  four  seasons — they  regarded 
the  mist  but  as  an  added  obscuration,  and  ignored  its 
humid  quality. 

They  were  travelling  in  a  direction  that  was  enlivened 
by  no  modern  current  of  traffic,  the  place  of  Darton's 
pilgrimage  being  an  old-fashioned  village — one  of  the 
Hintocks  (several  villages  of  that  name,  with  a  distinctive 
prefix  or  affix,  lying  thereabout) — where  the  people  make 
the  best  cider  and  cider-wine  in  all  Wcssex,  and  where 
the  dunghills  smell  of  pomace  instead  of  stable  refuse 
as  elsewhere.  The  lane  was  sometimes  so  narrow  that 
the  brambles  of  the  hedge,  which  hung  forward  hke 
anglers'  rods  over  a  stream,  scratched  their  hats  and 
curry-combed  their  whiskers  as  they  passed.  Yet  this 
neglected  lane  had  been  a  highway  to  Queen  Elizabeth's 
subjects  and  the  cavalcades  of  the  past.  Its  day  was  over 
now,  and  its  history  as  a  national  artery  done  for  ever. 
•  Why  I  have  decided  to  marry  her,'  resumed  Darton 

177  M 


WESSEX  TALES 

(in  a  measured  musical  voice  of  confidence  which  re- 
vealed a  good  deal  of  his  composition),  as  he  glanced 
round  to  see  that  the  lad  was  not  too  near,  *  is  not  only 
that  I  like  her,  but  that  I  can  do  no  better,  even  from 
a  fairly  practical  point  of  view.  That  I  might  ha'  looked 
higher  is  possibly  true,  though  it  is  really  all  nonsense. 
I  have  had  experience  enough  in  looking  above  me. 
"  No  more  superior  women  for  me,"  said  I — you  know 
when.  Sally  is  a  comely,  independent,  simple  character, 
with  no  make-up  about  her,  who'll  think  me  as  much  a 
superior  to  her  as  I  used  to  think — you  know  who  I 
mean — was  to  me.' 

*  Ay,'  said  Johns.  '  However,  I  shouldn't  call  Sally 
Hall  simple.  Primary,  because  no  Sally  is ;  secondary, 
because  if  some  could  be,  this  one  wouldn't.  'Tis  a 
wrong  denomination  to  apply  to  a  woman,  Charles,  and 
affects  me,  as  your  best  man,  like  cold  water.  'Tis  like 
recommending  a  stage  play  by  saying  there's  neither 
murder,  villainy,  nor  harm  of  any  sort  in  it,  when  that's 
what  you've  paid  your  half-crown  to  see.' 

•Well;  may  your  opinion  do  you  good.  Mine's  a 
different  one.'  And  turning  the  conversation  from  the 
philosophical  to  the  practical,  Darton  expressed  a  hope 
that  the  said  Sally  had  received  what  he'd  sent  on  by 
the  carrier  that  day. 

Johns  wanted  to  know  what  that  was. 

*  It  is  a  dress,'  said  Darton.  '  Not  exactly  a  wedding- 
dress  ;  though  she  may  use  it  as  one  if  she  likes.  It 
is  rather  serviceable  than  showy — suitable  for  the  winter 
weather.' 

'  Good,'  said  Johns.  '  Serviceable  is  a  wise  word  in 
a  bridegroom.     I  commend  ye,  Charles.' 

'  For,'  said  Darton,  *  why  should  a  woman  dress  up 
like  a  rope-dancer  because  she's  going  to  do  the  most 
solemn  deed  of  her  life  except  dying  ? ' 

*  Faith,  why  ?  But  she  will,  because  she  will,  I 
suppose,'  said  Dairyman  Johns. 

178 


INTERLOPERS  AT  THE  KNAP 

*  H'ln,*  said  Darton. 

The  lane  they  followed  had  been  nearly  straight  for 
several  miles,  but  it  now  took  a  turn,  and  winding  un- 
certainly for  some  distance  forked  into  two.  By  night 
country  roads  are  apt  to  reveal  ungainly  qualities  which 
pass  without  observation  during  day ;  and  though  Darton 
had  travelled  this  way  before,  he  had  not  done  so  fre- 
quently, Sally  having  been  wooed  at  the  house  of  a 
relative  near  his  own.  He  never  remembered  seeing 
at  this  spot  a  pair  of  alternative  ways  looking  so  equally 
probable  as  these  two  did  now.  Johns  rode  on  a  few 
steps. 

'  Don't  be  out  of  heart,  sonny,*  he  cried.  *  Here's  a 
handpost.  Enoch — come  and  climm  this  post,  and  tell 
us  the  way.' 

The  lad  dismounted,  and  jumped  into  the  hedge 
where  the  post  stood  under  a  tree. 

*  Unstrap  the  baskets,  or  you'll  smash  up  that  wine  ! ' 
cried  Darton,  as  the  young  man  began  spasmodically  to 
climb  the  post,  baskets  and  all. 

*  Was  there  ever  less  head  in  a  brainless  world  ? ' 
said  Johns.  *  Here,  simple  Nocky,  I'll  do  it.'  He 
leapt  off,  and  with  much  pufifing  climbed  the  post, 
striking  a  match  when  he  reached  the  top,  and  moving 
the  light  along  the  arm,  the  lad  standing  and  gazing  at 
the  spectacle. 

'  I  have  faced  tantalization  these  twenty  years  with  a 
temper  as  mild  as  milk  i '  said  Japheth ;  *  but  such  things 
as  this  don't  come  short  of  devilry ! '  And  flinging  the 
match  away,  he  slipped  down  to  the  ground. 

'  What's  the  matter  ? '  asked  Darton. 

*  Not  a  letter,  sacred  or  heathen — not  so  much  as 
would  tell  us  the  way  to  the  great  fireplace — ever  1 
should  sin  to  say  it !  Either  the  moss  and  mildew 
have  eat  away  the  words,  or  we  have  arrived  in  a  land 
where  the  natyves  have  lost  the  art  o'  writing,  and  should 
ha'  brought  our  compass  like  Christopher  Columbus.' 

X79 


WESSEX  TALES 

•Let  us  take  the  straightest  road,'  said  Darton 
placidly ;  '  I  shan't  be  sorry  to  get  there — 'tis  a  tire- 
some ride.     I  would  have  driven  if  I  had  known.' 

•  Nor  I  neither,  sir,'  said  Enoch.  '  These  straps 
plough  my  shoulder  like  a  zull.  If  'tis  much  further 
to  your  lady's  home,  Maister  Darton,  I  shall  ask  to  be 
let  carry  half  of  these  good  things  in  my  innerds — 
hee,  hee ! ' 

'  Don't  you  be  such  a  reforming  radical,  Enoch,'  said 
Johns  sternly.     '  Here,  I'll  take  the  turkey.' 

This  being  done,  they  went  forward  by  the  right-hand 
lane,  which  ascended  a  hill,  the  left  winding  away  under 
a  plantation.  The  pit-a-pat  of  their  horses'  hoofs  lessened 
up  the  slope ;  and  the  ironical  directing-post  stood  in 
solitude  as  before,  holding  out  its  blank  arms  to  the 
raw  breeze,  which  brought  a  snore  from  the  wood  as  if 
Skrymir  the  Giant  were  sleeping  there. 


«:-,- 


11 

Three  miles  to  the  left  of  the  travellers,  along  the 
road  they  had  not  followed,  rose  an  old  house  with 
mullioned  windows  of  Ham-hill  stone,  and  chimneys  of 
lavish  solidity.  It  stood  at  the  top  of  a  slope  beside 
Great-Hintock  village-street;  and  immediately  in  front 
of  it  grew  a  large  sycamore-tree,  whose  bared  roots 
formed  a  convenient  staircase  from  the  road  below  to 
the  front  door  of  the  dwelling.  Its  situation  gave  the 
house  what  Uttle  distinctive  name  it  possessed,  namely, 
•The  Knap.'  Some  forty  yards  off  a  brook  dribbled 
past,  which,  for  its  size,  made  a  great  deal  of  noise.  At 
the  back  was  a  dairy  barton,  accessible  for  vehicles  and 
live-stock  by  a  side  'drong.'  Thus  much  only  of  the 
character  of  the  homestead  could  be  divined  out  of 
doors  at  this  shady  evening-time. 

But  within  there  was  plenty  of  light  to  see  by,  as 
plenty  was  construed  at  Hintock.  Beside  a  Tudor 
fireplace,  whose  moulded  four-centred  arch  was  nearly 
hidden  by  a  figured  blue-cloth  blower,  were  seated  two 
women — mother  and  daughter — Mrs.  Hall,  and  Sarah, 
or  Sally;  for  this  was  a  part  of  the  world  where  the 
latter  modification  had  not  as  yet  been  effaced  as  a 
vulgarity  by  the  march  of  intellect.  The  owner  of 
the  name  was  the  young  woman  by  whose  means  Mr. 

i8x 


WESSEX  TALES 

Darton  proposed  to  put  an  end  to  his  bachelor  condition 
on  the  approaching  day. 

The  mother's  bereavement  had  been  so  long  ago  as 
not  to  leave  much  mark  of  its  occurrence  upon  her 
now,  either  in  face  or  clothes.  She  had  resumed  the 
mob-cap  of  her  early  married  life,  enlivening  its  white- 
ness by  a  few  rose-du-Barry  ribbons.  Sally  required 
no  such  aids  to  pinkness.  Roseate  good-nature  lit  up 
her  gaze;  her  features  showed  curves  of  decision  and 
judgment;  and  she  might  have  been  regarded  without 
much  mistake  as  a  warm-hearted,  quick-spirited,  hand- 
some girl. 

She  did  most  of  the  talking,  her  mother  listening 
with  a  half-absent  air,  as  she  picked  up  fragments  of 
red-hot  wood  ember  with  the  tongs,  and  piled  them 
upon  the  brands.  But  the  number  of  speeches  that 
passed  was  very  small  in  proportion  to  the  meanings 
exchanged.  Long  experience  together  often  enabled 
them  to  see  the  course  of  thought  in  each  other's 
minds  without  a  word  being  spoken.  Behind  them,  in 
the  centre  of  the  room,  the  table  was  spread  for  supper, 
certain  whiffs  of  air  laden  with  fat  vapours,  which  ever 
and  anon  entered  from  the  kitchen,  denoting  its  prepara- 
tion there. 

'The  new  gown  he  was  going  to  send  you  stays 
about  on  the  way  like  himself,'  Sally's  mother  was 
saying. 

'Yes,  not  finished,  I  daresay,'  cried  Sally  indepen- 
dently. '  Lord,  I  shouldn't  be  amazed  if  it  didn't  come 
at  all !  Young  men  make  such  kind  promises  when 
they  are  near  you,  and  forget  'em  when  they  go  away. 
But  he  doesn't  intend  it  as  a  wedding-gown — he  gives 
it  to  me  merely  as  a  gown  to  wear  when  I  like — a 
travelling-dress  is  what  it  would  be  called  by  some. 
Come  rathe  or  come  late  it  don't  much  matter,  as  I 
have  a  dress  of  my  own  to  fall  back  upon.  But  what 
time  is  it  ? ' 

183 


INTERLOPERS   AT  THE  KNAP 

She  went  to  the  family  clock  and  opened  the  glass, 
for  the  hour  was  not  otherwise  discernible  by  night, 
and  indeed  at  all  times  was  rather  a  thino;  to  be  in- 
vestigated  than  beheld,  so  much  more  wall  than  window 
was  there  in  the  apartment.  '  It  is  nearly  eight,'  said 
she. 

'  Eight  o'clock,  and  neither  dress  nor  man,'  said 
Mrs.  Hall. 

'  Mother,  if  you  think  to  tantalize  me  by  talking  like 
that,  you  are  much  mistaken !  Let  him  be  as  late  as 
he  will — or  stay  away  altogether — I  don't  care,'  said 
Sally.  But  a  tender,  minute  quaver  in  the  negation 
showed  that  there  was  something  forced  in  that  state- 
ment. 

Mrs.  Hall  perceived  it,  and  drily  observed  that  she 
was  not  so  sure  about  Sally  not  caring.  '  But  perhaps 
you  don't  care  so  much  as  I  do,  after  all,'  she  said. 
*  For  I  see  what  you  don't,  that  it  is  a  good  and 
flourishing  match  for  you;  a  very  honourable  offer  in 
Mr.  Darton.  And  I  think  I  see  a  kind  husband  in 
him.  So  pray  God  'twill  go  smooth,  and  wind  up 
well.' 

Sally  would  not  listen  to  misgivings.  Of  course  it 
would  go  smoothly,  she  asserted.  '  How  you  are  up 
and  down,  mother !  *  she  went  on.  '  At  this  moment, 
whatever  hinders  him,  we  are  not  so  anxious  to  see  him 
as  he  is  to  be  here,  and  his  thought  runs  on  before 
him,  and  settles  down  upon  us  like  the  star  in  the 
east.  Hark ! '  she  exclaimed,  with  a  breath  of  relief, 
her  eyes  sparkling.  *  I  heard  something.  Yes — here 
they  are !  * 

The  next  moment  her  mother's  slower  ear  also  dis- 
tinguished the  familiar  reverberation  occasioned  by  foot- 
steps clambering  up  the  roots  of  the  sycamore. 

'  Yes  it  sounds  like  them  at  last,'  she  said.  '  Well, 
it  is  not  so  very  late  after  all,  considering  the  dis- 
tance.' 

N  183 


WESSEX  TALES 

The  footfall  ceased,  and  they  arose,  expecting  a 
knock.  They  began  to  think  it  might  have  been,  after 
all,  some  neighbouring  villager  under  Bacchic  influence, 
giving  the  centre  of  the  road  a  wide  berth,  when  their 
doubts  were  dispelled  by  the  new-comer's  entry  into  the 
passage.  The  door  of  the  room  was  gently  opened, 
and  there  appeared,  not  the  pair  of  travellers  with 
whom  we  have  already  made  acquaintance,  but  a  pale- 
faced  man  in  the  garb  of  extreme  poverty — almost 
in  rags. 

'  O,  it's  a  tramp — gracious  me !  *  said  Sally,  starting 
back. 

His  cheeks  and  eye-orbits  were  deep  concaves — 
rather,  it  might  be,  from  natural  weakness  of  constitu- 
tion than  irregular  living,  though  there  were  indica- 
tions that  he  had  led  no  careful  life.  He  gazed  at 
the  two  women  fixedly  for  a  moment :  then  with  an 
abashed,  humiliated  demeanour,  dropped  his  glance 
to  the  floor,  and  sank  into  a  chair  without  uttering  a 
word. 

Sally  was  in  advance  of  her  mother,  who  had  re- 
mained standing  by  the  fire.  She  now  tried  to  discern 
the  visitor  across  the  candles. 

•Why — mother,'  said  Sally  faintly,  turning  back  to 
Mrs.  Hall.     '  It  is  Phil,  from  Australia  ! ' 

Mrs.  Hall  started,  and  grew  pale,  and  a  fit  of 
coughing  seized  the  man  with  the  ragged  clothes. 
•  To  come  home  like  this  1 '  she  said.  '  O,  Philip — are 
you  ill  ? ' 

'  No,  no,  mother,'  replied  he  impatiently,  as  soon  as 
he  could  speak. 

'But  for  God's  sake  how  do  you  come  here — and 
just  now  too  ? ' 

'Well,  I  am  here,'  said  the  man.  'How  it  is  I 
hardly  know.  I've  come  home,  mother,  because  I  was 
driven  to  it.  Things  were  against  me  out  there,  and 
went  from  bad  to  worse.' 

184 


»_- 


INTERLOPERS  AT  THE  KNAP 

*Then  why  didn't  you  let  us  know? — you've  not 
writ  a  line  for  the  last  two  or  three  years.' 

The  son  admitted  sadly  that  he  had  not.  He  said 
that  he  had  hoped  and  thought  he  might  fetch  up  again, 
and  be  able  to  send  good  news.  Then  he  had  been 
obliged  to  abandon  that  hope,  and  had  finally  come 
home  from  sheer  necessity — previously  to  making  a 
new  start.  '  Yes,  things  are  very  bad  with  me,'  he 
repeated,  perceiving  their  commiserating  glances  at  his 
clothes. 

They  brought  him  nearer  the  fire,  took  his  hat 
from  his  thin  hand,  which  was  so  small  and  smooth 
as  to  show  that  his  attempts  to  fetch  up  again 
had  not  been  in  a  manual  direction.  His  mother  re- 
sumed her  inquiries,  and  dubiously  asked  if  he  had 
chosen  to  come  that  particular  night  for  any  special 
reason. 

For  no  reason,  he  told  her.  His  arrival  had  been 
quite  at  random.  Then  Philip  Hall  looked  round  the 
room,  and  saw  for  the  first  time  that  the  table  was  laid 
somewhat  luxuriously,  and  for  a  larger  number  than 
themselves ;  and  that  an  air  of  festivity  pervaded  their 
dress.     He  asked  quickly  what  was  going  on. 

'  Sally  is  going  to  be  married  in  a  day  or  two,'  re- 
plied the  mother ;  and  she  explained  how  Mr.  Dartoi^, 
Sally's  intended  husband,  was  coming  there  that  night 
with  the  groomsman,  Mr.  Johns,  and  other  details.  '  We 
thought  it  must  be  their  step  when  we  heard  you,'  said 
Mrs.  Hall. 

The  needy  wanderer  looked  again  on  the  floor.  '  I 
see — I  see,'  he  murmured.  'Why,  indeed,  should  I 
have  come  to-night?  Such  folk  as  I  are  not  wanted 
here  at  these  times,  naturally.  And  I  have  no  business 
here — spoiling  other  people's  happiness.* 

*  Phil,'  said  his  mother,  with  a  tear  in  her  eye,  but 
with  a  thinness  of  lip  and  severity  of  manner  which 
were  presumably  not  more  than  past  events  justified; 

185 


WESSEX  TALES 

•  since  you  speak  like  that  to  me,  I'll  speak  honestly  to 
you.  For  these  three  years  you  have  taken  no  thought 
for  us.  You  left  home  with  a  good  supply  of  money, 
and  strength  and  education,  and  you  ought  to  have 
made  good  use  of  it  all.  But  you  come  back  like  a 
beggar ;  and  that  you  come  in  a  very  awkward  time  for 
us  cannot  be  denied.  Your  return  to-night  may  do  us 
much  harm.  But  mind — you  are  welcome  to  this  home 
as  long  as  it  is  mine.  I  don't  wish  to  turn  you  adrift. 
We  will  make  the  best  of  a  bad  job;  and  I  hope  you 
are  not  seriously  ill  ? ' 

'  O  no.     I  have  only  this  infernal  cough,* 

She  looked  at  him  anxiously.  *  I  think  you  had 
better  go  to  bed  at  once,'  she  said. 

*Well — I  shall  be  out  of  the  way  there,*  said  the 
son  wearily.  *  Having  ruined  myself,  don't  let  me  ruin 
you  by  being  seen  in  these  togs,  for  Heaven's  sake. 
Who  do  you  say  Sally  is  going  to  be  married  to — a 
Farmer  Dar«"on  ? ' 

'Yes — a  gentleman-farmer — quite  a  wealthy  man. 
Far  better  in  station  than  she  could  have  expected.  It 
is  a  good  thing,  altogether.' 

'  Well  done,  little  Sal ! '  said  her  brother,  brightening 
and  looking  up  at  her  with  a  smile.  '  I  ought  to  have 
written  ;  but  perhaps  I  have  thought  of  you  all  the  more. 
But  let  me  get  out  of  sight.  I  would  rather  go  and 
jump  into  the  river  than  be  seen  here.  But  have  you 
anything  I  can  drink  ?  I  am  confoundedly  thirsty  with 
my  long  tramp.* 

'Yes,  yes,  we  will  bring  something  upstairs  to  you,* 
said  Sally,  with  grief  in  her  face. 

'  Ay,  that  will  do  nicely.  But,  Sally  and  mother — * 
He  stopped,  and  they  waited.  '  Mother,  I  have  not 
told  you  all,'  he  resumed  slowly,  still  looking  on  the 
floor  between  his  knees.  '  Sad  as  what  you  see  of  me 
is,  there's  worse  behind.* 

His  mother  gazed  upon  him  in  grieved  suspf-nse, 

jS6 


Interlopers  at  the  knap 

and  Sally  went  and  leant  upon  the  bureau,  listening  for 
every  sound,  and  sighing.  Suddenly  she  turned  round, 
saying,  '  Let  them  come,  I  don't  care  I  Philip,  tell  the 
worst,  and  take  your  time.' 

'Well,  then,'  said  the  unhappy  Phil,  *I  am  not  the 
only  one  in  this  mess.  Would  to  Heaven  I  werel 
But ' 

♦  O,  Phil ! ' 

•  I  have  a  wife  as  destitute  as  I.* 

•  A  wife  ?  '  said  his  mother. 

*  Unhappily ! ' 

*  A  wife !     Yes,  that  is  the  way  with  sons !  * 
•And  besides '  said  he. 

♦  Besides  !     O,  Philip,  surely ' 

•  I  have  two  little  children.' 

•Wife  and  children!'  whispered  Mrs.  Hall,  sinking 
down  confounded, 

'  Poor  little  things  ! '  said  Sally  involuntarily. 

His  mother  turned  again  to  him.  *  I  suppose  these 
helpless  beings  are  left  in  Australia  ? ' 

'  No.     They  are  in  England.' 

'  Well,  I  can  only  hope  you've  left  them  in  a  respect- 
able  place.' 

'  I  have  not  left  them  at  all.  They  are  here — 
within  a  few  yards  of  us.  In  short,  they  are  in  the 
stable.' 

'Where?' 

'  In  the  stable.  I  did  not  like  to  bring  them  indoors 
till  I  had  seen  you,  mother,  and  broken  the  bad  news 
a  bit  to  you.  They  were  very  tired,  and  are  resting  out 
there  on  some  straw.' 

Mrs.  Hall's  fortitude  visibly  broke  down.  She  had 
been  brought  up  not  without  refinement,  and  was  even 
more  moved  by  such  a  collapse  of  genteel  aims  as  this 
than  a  substantial  dairyman's  widow  would  in  ordinary 
have  been  moved.  '  Well,  it  must  be  borne,'  she  said, 
in  a  low  voice,   with  her  hands  tightly  joined.      'A 

187 


WESSEX   TALES 

starving  son,  a  starving  wife,  starving  children !  Let 
it  be.  But  why  is  this  come  to  us  now,  to-day,  to- 
night? Could  no  other  misfortune  happen  to  help- 
less women  than  this,  which  will  quite  upset  my  poor 
girl's  chance  of  a  happy  life?  Why  have  you  done 
us  this  wrong,  Philip?  What  respectable  man  will 
come  here,  and  marry  open-eyed  into  a  family  of  vaga- 
bonds ? ' 

*  Nonsense,  mother !  said  Sally  vehemently,  while 
her  face  flushed.  *  Charley  isn't  the  man  to  desert  me. 
But  if  he  should  be,  and  won't  marry  me  because 
Phil's  come,  let  him  go  and  marry  elsewhere.  I  won't 
be  ashamed  of  my  own  flesh  and  blood  for  any  man  in 
England — not  1 1 '  And  then  Sally  turned  away  and 
burst  into  tears. 

'  Wait  till  you  are  twenty  years  older  and  you  will 
tell  a  different  tale,'  replied  her  mother. 

The  son  stood  up.  *  Mother,'  he  said  bitterly,  *  as 
I  have  come,  so  I  will  go.  All  I  ask  of  you  is  that  you 
will  allow  me  and  mine  to  lie  in  your  stable  to-night. 
I  give  you  my  word  that  we'll  be  gone  by  break  of  day, 
and  trouble  you  no  further  ! ' 

Mrs  Hall,  the  mother,  changed  at  that.  'O  no,' 
she  answered  hastily ;  '  never  shall  it  be  said  that  I 
sent  any  of  my  own  family  from  my  door.  Bring  'em 
in,  Philip,  or  take  me  out  to  them.' 

'  We  will  put  'em  all  into  the  large  bedroom,'  said 
Sally,  brightening,  •  and  make  up  a  large  fire.  Let's  go 
and  help  them  in,  and  call  Rebekah.'  (Rebekah  was 
the  woman  who  assisted  at  the  dairy  and  housework ; 
she  lived  in  a  cottage  hard  by  with  her  husband,  who 
attended  to  the  cows.) 

Sally  went  to  fetch  a  lantern  from  the  back-kitchen, 
but  her  brother  said,  *  You  won't  want  a  light.  I  lit  the 
lantern  that  was  hanging  there.' 

*  What  must  we  call  your  wife  ? '  asked  Mrs.  HalL 

*  Helena,'  said  Pliilip. 

i88 


* ,' 


INTERLOPERS  AT  THE   KNAP 

With  shawls  over  their  heads  they  proceeded  towards 
the  back  door. 

'  One  minute  before  you  go,'  interrupted  Philip.  '  I 
— I  haven't  confessed  all.' 

'Then  Heaven  help  us!'  said  Mrs.  Hall,  push- 
ing to  the  door  and  clasping  her  hands  in  calm 
despair. 

'  We  passed  through  Evershead  as  we  came,'  he  con- 
tinued, '  and  I  just  looked  in  at  the  "  Sow-and-Acorn  " 
to  see  if  old  Mike  still  kept  on  there  as  usual.  The 
carrier  had  come  in  from  Sherton  Abbas  at  that  moment, 
and  guessing  that  I  was  bound  for  this  place — for  I 
think  he  knew  me — he  asked  me  to  bring  on  a  dress- 
maker's parcel  for  Sally  that  was  marked  "  immediate." 
My  wife  had  walked  on  with  the  children.  'Twas  a 
flimsy  parcel,  and  the  paper  was  torn,  and  I  found  on 
looking  at  it  that  it  was  a  thick  warm  gown.  I  didn't 
wish  you  to  see  poor  Helena  in  a  shabby  state.  I 
was  ashamed  that  you  should — 'twas  not  what  she 
was  born  to.  I  untied  the  parcel  in  the  road,  took 
it  on  to  her  where  she  was  waiting  in  the  Lower  Barn, 
and  told  her  I  had  managed  to  get  it  for  her,  and 
that  she  was  to  ask  no  question.  She,  poor  thing,  must 
have  supposed  I  obtained  it  on  trust,  through  having 
reached  a  place  where  I  was  known,  for  she  put  it  on 
gladly  enough.  She  has  it  on  now.  Sally  has  other 
gowns,  I  daresay.' 

Sally  looked  at  her  mother,  speechless. 

*  You  have  others,  I  daresay ! '  repeated  Phil,  with  a 
sick  man's  impatience.  '  I  thought  to  myself,  "  Better 
Sally  cry  than  Helena  freeze."  Well,  is  the  dress  of 
great  consequence  ?  'Twas  nothing  very  ornamental, 
as  far  as  I  could  see.' 

'  No — no ;  not  of  consequence,'  returned  Sally  sadly, 
adding  in  a  gentle  voice,  '  You  will  not  mind  if  I  lend 
her  another  instead  of  that  one,  will  you  ?  ' 

Philip's  agitation  at  the  confession  had  brought  on 

189 


WESSEX  TALES 

another  attack  of  the  cough,  which  seemed  to  shake 
him  to  pieces.  He  was  so  obviously  unfit  to  sit  in 
a  chair  that  they  helped  him  upstairs  at  once;  and 
having  hastily  given  him  a  cordial  and  kindled  the  bed- 
room fire,  they  descended  to  fetch  their  unhappy  new 
relations. 


Ill 

It  was  with  strange  feelings  that  the  girl  and  her 
mother,  lately  so  cheerful,  passed  out  of  the  back  door 
into  the  open  air  of  the  barton,  laden  with  hay  scents 
and  the  herby  breath  of  cows.  A  fine  sleet  had  begun 
to  fall,  and  they  trotted  across  the  yard  quickly.  The 
stable-door  was  open ;  a  light  shone  from  it — from  the 
lantern  which  always  hung  there,  and  which  Philip  had 
lighted,  as  he  said.  Softly  nearing  the  door,  Mrs.  Hall 
pronounced  the  name  *  Helena ! ' 

There  was  no  answer  for  the  moment.  Looking  in 
she  was  taken  by  surprise.  Two  people  appeared 
before  her.  For  one,  instead  of  the  drabbish  woman 
she  had  expected,  Mrs.  Hall  saw  a  pale,  dark-eyed,  lady- 
like creature,  whose  personality  ruled  her  attire  rather 
than  was  ruled  by  it.  She  was  in  a  new  and  handsome 
gown,  of  course,  and  an  old  bonnet.  She  was  standing 
up,  agitated ;  her  hand  was  held  by  her  companion — 
none  else  than  Sally's  affianced.  Farmer  Charles  Darton, 
upon  whose  fine  figure  the  pale  stranger's  eyes  were 
fixed,  as  his  were  fixed  upon  her.  His  other  hand  held 
the  rein  of  his  horse,  which  was  standing  saddled  as  if 
just  led  in. 

At  sight  of  Mrs.  Hall  they  both  turned,  looking  at 
her  in  a  way  neither  quite  conscious  nor  unconscious, 
and  without  seeming  to  recollect  that  words  were  neces- 

191 


WESSEX  TALES 

sary  as  a  solution  to  the  scene.  In  another  moment 
Sally  entered  also,  when  Mr.  Darton  dropped  his  com- 
panion's hand,  led  the  horse  aside,  and  came  to  greet 
his  betrothed  and  Mrs.  Hall. 

*  Ah  ! '  he  said,  smiling — with  something  like  forced 
composure — *  this  is  a  roundabout  way  of  arriving,  you 
will  say,  my  dear  Mrs.  Hall.  But  we  lost  our  way, 
which  made  us  late.  I  saw  a  hght  here,  and  led  in  my 
horse  at  once — my  friend  Johns  and  my  man  have  gone 
back  to  the  little  inn  with  theirs,  not  to  crowd  you  too 
much.  No  sooner  had  I  entered  than  I  saw  that  this 
lady  had  taken  temporary  shelter  here — and  found  I 
was  intruding.' 

*  She  is  my  daughter-in-law,'  said  Mrs.  Hall  calmly. 
'  My  son,  too,  is  in  the  house,  but  he  has  gone  to  bed 
unwell.' 

Sally  had  stood  staring  wonderingly  at  the  scene 
until  this  moment,  hardly  recognizing  Barton's  shake  of 
the  hand.  The  spell  that  bound  her  was  broken  by  her 
perceiving  the  two  little  children  seated  on  a  heap  of 
hay.  She  suddenly  went  forward,  spoke  to  them,  and 
took  one  on  her  arm  and  the  other  in  her  hand. 

'  And  two  children  ? '  said  Mr.  Darton,  showing  thus 
that  he  had  not  been  there  long  enough  as  yet  to  under- 
stand the  situation. 

*  My  grandchildren,'  said  Mrs.  Hall,  with  as  much 
affected  ease  as  before. 

Philip  Hall's  wife,  in  spite  of  this  interruption  to 
her  first  rencounter,  seemed  scarcely  so  much  affected 
by  it  as  to  feel  any  one's  presence  in  addition  to  Mr. 
Barton's.  However,  arousing  herself  by  a  quick  re- 
flection, she  threw  a  sudden  critical  glance  of  her  sad 
eyes  upon  Mrs.  Hall;  and,  apparently  finding  her  satis- 
factory, advanced  to  her  in  a  meek  initiative.  Then 
Sally  and  the  stranger  spoke  some  friendly  words  to 
each  other,  and  Sally  went  on  with  the  children  into 
the  house.     Mrs.  Hall  and  Helena  followed,  and  Mr. 

192 


INTERLOPERS  AT  THE  KNAP 

Darton  followed  these,  looking  at  Helena's  dress  and 
outline,  and  listening  to  her  voice  like  a  man  in  a 
dream. 

By  the  time  the  others  reached  the  house  Sally  had 
already  gone  upstairs  with  the  tired  children.  She 
rapped  against  the  wall  for  Rebekah  to  come  in  and 
help  to  attend  to  them,  Rebekah's  house  being  a  little 
•  spit-and-dab '  cabin  leaning  against  the  substantial  stone- 
work of  Mrs.  Hall's  taller  erection.  When  she  came  a 
bed  was  made  up  for  the  little  ones,  and  some  supper  given 
to  them.  On  descending  the  stairs  after  seeing  this  done 
Sally  went  to  the  sitting-room.  Young  Mrs.  Hall 
entered  it  just  in  advance  of  her,  having  in  the  interim 
retired  with  her  mother-in-law  to  take  off  her  bonnet, 
and  otherwise  make  herself  presentable.  Hence  it  was 
evident  that  no  further  communication  could  have 
passed  between  her  and  Mr.  Darton  since  their  brief 
interview  in  the  stable. 

Mr.  Japheth  Johns  now  opportunely  arrived,  and 
broke  up  the  restraint  of  the  company,  after  a  few 
orthodox  meteorological  commentaries  had  passed  be- 
tween him  and  Mrs.  Hall  by  way  of  introduction.  They 
at  once  sat  down  to  supper,  the  present  of  wine  and 
turkey  not  being  produced  for  consumption  to-night, 
lest  the  premature  display  of  those  gifts  should  seem 
to  throw  doubt  on  Mrs.  Hall's  capacities  as  a  provider. 

*  Drink  hearty,  Mr.  Johns — drink  hearty,'  said  that 
matron  magnanimously.  '  Such  as  it  is  there's  plenty 
of.  But  perhaps  cider-wine  is  not  to  your  taste? — 
though  there's  body  in  it.' 

'  Quite  the  contrairy,  ma'am — quite  the  contrairy,' 
said  the  dairj'man.  '  For  though  I  inherit  the  malt- 
liquor  principle  from  my  father,  I  am  a  cider-drinker 
on  my  mother's  side.  She  came  from  these  parts,  you 
know.  And  there's  this  to  be  said  for't — 'tis  a  more 
peaceful  liquor,  and  don't  lie  about  a  man  like  your 
hotter  drinks.     With  care,  one  may  live  on  it  a  twelve- 

193  K 


WESSEX  TALES 

month  without  knocking  down  a  neighbour,  or  getting 
a  black  eye  from  an  old  acquaintance.' 

The  general  conversation  thus  begun  was  continued 
briskly,  though  it  was  in  the  main  restricted  to  Mrs. 
Hall  and  Japheth,  who  in  truth  required  but  little  help 
from  anybody.  There  being  slight  cair  upon  Sally's 
tongue,  she  had  ample  leisure  to  do  what  her  heart 
most  desired,  namely,  watch  her  intended  husband  and 
her  sister-in-law  with  a  view  of  elucidating  the  strange 
momentary  scene  in  which  her  mother  and  herself  had 
surprised  them  in  the  stable.  If  that  scene  meant 
anything,  it  meant,  at  least,  that  they  had  met  before. 
That  there  had  been  no  time  for  explanations  Sally 
could  see,  for  their  manner  was  still  one  of  suppressed 
amazement  at  each  other's  presence  there.  Darton's 
eyes,  too,  fell  continually  on  the  gown  worn  by  Helena 
as  if  this  were  an  added  riddle  to  his  perplexity ;  though 
to  Sally  it  was  the  one  feature  in  the  case  which  was 
no  mystery.  He  seemed  to  feel  that  fate  had  impishly 
changed  his  vis-a-vis  in  the  lover's  jig  he  was  about 
to  foot;  that  while  the  gown  had  been  expected  to 
enclose  a  Sally,  a  Helena's  face  looked  out  from  the 
bodice;  that  some  long-lost  hand  met  his  own  from 
the  sleeves. 

Sally  could  see  that  whatever  Helena  might  know 
of  Darton,  she  knew  nothing  of  how  the  dress  entered 
into  his  embarrassment.  And  at  moments  the  young 
girl  would  have  persuaded  herself  that  Darton's  looks 
at  her  sister-in-law  were  entirely  the  fruit  of  the  clothes 
query.  But  surely  at  other  times  a  more  extensive 
range  of  speculation  and  sentiment  was  expressed  by 
her  lover's  eye  than  that  which  the  changed  dress  would 
account  for. 

Sally's  independence  made  her  one  of  the  least 
jealous  of  women.  But  there  was  something  in  the 
relations  of  these  two  visitors  which  ought  to  be 
explained. 

194 


INTERLOPERS  AT  THE   KNAP 

Japheth  Johns  continued  to  converse  in  his  well- 
known  style,  interspersing  his  talk  with  some  private 
reflections  on  the  position  of  Darton  and  Sally,  which, 
though  the  sparkle  in  his  eye  showed  them  to  be  highly 
entertaining  to  himself,  were  apparently  not  quite  com- 
municable to  the  company.  At  last  he  withdrew  for 
the  night,  going  off  to  the  roadside  inn  half-a-mile 
back,  whither  Darton  promised  to  follow  him  in  a  few 
minutes. 

Half-an-hour  passed,  and  then  Mr.  Darton  also  rose 
to  leave,  Sally  and  her  sister-in-law  simultaneously  wish- 
ing him  good-night  as  they  retired  upstairs  to  their 
rooms.  But  on  his  arriving  at  the  front  door  with  Mrs. 
Hall  a  sharp  shower  of  rain  began  to  come  down,  when 
the  widow  suggested  that  he  should  return  to  the  fire- 
side till  the  storm  ceased. 

Darton  accepted  her  proposal,  but  insisted  that,  as  it 
was  getting  late,  and  she  was  obviously  tired,  she  should 
not  sit  up  on  his  account,  since  he  could  let  himself  out 
of  the  house,  and  would  quite  enjoy  smoking  a  pipe  by 
the  hearth  alone.  Mrs.  Hall  assented ;  and  Darton  was 
left  by  himself.  He  spread  his  knees  to  the  brands,  lit 
up  his  tobacco  as  he  had  said,  and  sat  gazing  into  the 
fire,  and  at  the  notches  of  the  chimney-crook  which 
hung  above. 

An  occasional  drop  of  rain  rolled  down  the  chimney 
with  a  hiss,  and  still  he  smoked  on ;  but  not  like  a  man 
whose  mind  was  at  rest.  In  the  long  run,  however, 
despite  his  meditations,  early  hours  afield  and  a  long 
ride  in  the  open  air  produced  their  natural  result.  He 
began  to  doze. 

How  long  he  remained  in  this  half-unconscious  state 
he  did  not  know.  He  suddenly  opened  his  eyes.  The 
back-brand  had  burnt  itself  in  two,  and  ceased  to  flame ; 
the  light  which  he  had  placed  on  the  mantelpiece  had 
nearly,  gone  out.  But  in  spite  of  these  deficiencies 
there  was  a  light  in  the  apartment,  and  it  came  from 

195 


WESSEX  TALES 

elsewhere.  Turning  his  head  he  saw  Philip  Hall's  wife 
standing  at  the  entrance  of  the  room  with  a  bed-candle 
in  one  hand,  a  small  brass  tea-kettle  in  the  other,  and 
his  gown,  as  it  certainly  seemed,  still  upon  her. 

'  Helena ! '  said  Darton,  starting  up. 

Her  countenance  expressed  dismay,  and  her  first 
words  were  an  apology.  '  I — did  not  know  you  were 
here,  Mr.  Darton,'  she  said,  while  a  blush  flashed  to 
her  cheek.  '  I  thought  every  one  had  retired — I  was 
coming  to  make  a  Uttle  water  boil ;  my  husband  seems 
to  be  worse.  But  perhaps  the  kitchen  fire  can  be 
lighted  up  again.' 

'  Don't  go  on  my  account.  By  all  means  put  it  on 
here  as  you  intended,'  said  Darton.  '  Allow  me  to  help 
you.'  He  went  forward  to  take  the  kettle  from  her 
hand,  but  she  did  not  allow  him,  and  placed  it  on  the 
fire  herself. 

They  stood  some  way  apart,  one  on  each  side  of  the 
fireplace,  waiting  till  the  water  should  boil,  the  candle 
on  the  mantel  between  them,  and  Helena  with  her  eyes 
on  the  kettle.  Darton  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 
'  Shall  I  call  Sally  ? '  he  said. 

'  O  no,'  she  quickly  returned.  '  We  have  given 
trouble  enough  already.  We  have  no  right  here.  But 
we  are  the  sport  of  fate,  and  were  obliged  to  come.' 

'  No  right  here ! '  said  he  in  surprise. 

*None.  I  can't  explain  it  now,'  answered  Helena. 
*  This  kettle  is  very  slow.' 

There  was  another  pause ;  the  proverbial  dilatoriness 
of  watched  pots  was  never  more  clearly  exemplified. 

Helena's  face  was  of  that  sort  which  seems  to  ask 
for  assistance  without  the  owner's  knowledge — the  very 
antipodes  of  Sally's,  which  was  self-reliance  expressed. 
Darton's  eyes  travelled  from  the  kettle  to  Helena's  face, 
then  back  to  the  kettle,  then  to  the  face  for  rather  a 
longer  time.  '  So  I  am  not  to  know  anything  of  the 
mystery  that  has  distracted  me  all  the  evening?'  he 

T96 

\ 


INTERLOPERS  AT  THE   KNAP 

said.  '  How  is  it  that  a  woman,  who  refused  me  because 
(as  I  supposed)  my  position  was  not  good  enough  for 
her  taste,  is  found  to  be  the  wife  of  a  man  who  certainly 
seems  to  be  worse  off  than  I  ? ' 

'  He  had  the  prior  claim,'  said  she. 

*  What !  you  knew  Iiim  at  that  time  ?  ' 

*  Yes,  yes !  Please  say  no  more,'  she  implored. 
'  Whatever  my  errors,  I  have  paid  for  them  during  the 
last  five  years  !  * 

The  heart  of  Darton  was  subject  to  sudden  over- 
flowings. He  was  kind  to  a  fault.  '  I  am  sorry  from 
my  soul,'  he  said,  involuntarily  approaching  her.  Helena 
withdrew  a  step  or  two,  at  which  he  became  conscious 
of  his  movement,  and  quickly  took  his  former  place. 
Here  he  stood  without  speaking,  and  the  Uttle  kettle 
began  to  sing. 

'  Well,  you  might  have  been  my  wife  if  you  had 
chosen,'  he  said  at  last.  '  But  that's  all  past  and  gone. 
However,  if  you  are  in  any  trouble  or  poverty  I  shall  be 
glad  to  be  of  service,  and  as  your  relation  by  marriage 
I  shall  have  a  right  to  be.  Does  your  uncle  know  of 
your  distress  ? ' 

'  My  uncle  is  dead.  He  left  me  without  a  farthing. 
And  now  we  have  two  children  to  maintain.' 

'  What,  left  you  nothing  ?  How  could  he  be  so  cruel 
as  that  ? ' 

*  I  disgraced  myself  in  his  eyes.' 

'Now,'  said  Darton  earnestly,  'let  me  take  care  of 
the  children,  at  least  while  you  are  so  unsettled,  iou 
belong  to  another,  so  I  cannot  take  care  of  you.' 

'Yes  you  can,'  said  a  voice;  and  suddenly  a  third 
figure  stood  beside  them.  It  was  Sally.  '  You  can, 
since  you  seem  to  wish  to  ? '  she  repeated.  '  She  no 
longer  belongs  to  another.  .  .  .  My  poor  brother  is 
dead ! ' 

Her  face  was  red,  her  eyes  sparkled,  and  all  the 
woman   came  to   the  front.      '  I   have  heard   it ! '   she 

197 


WESSEX  TALES 

went  on  to  him  passionately.  'You  can  protect  hei 
now  as  well  as  the  children  ! '  She  turned  then  to  her 
agitated  sister-in-law.  '  I  heard  something,'  said  Sally 
(in  a  gentle  murmur,  differing  much  from  her  previous 
passionate  words),  *  and  I  went  into  his  room.  It  must 
have  been  the  moment  you  left.  He  went  off  so  quickly, 
and  weakly,  and  it  was  so  unexpected,  that  I  couldn't 
leave  even  to  call  you.' 

Darton  was  just  able  to  gather  from  the  confused 
discourse  which  followed  that,  during  his  sleep  by 
the  fire,  this  brother  whom  he  had  never  seen  had 
become  worse ;  and  that  during  Helena's  absence  for 
water  the  end  had  unexpectedly  come.  The  two  young 
women  hastened  upstairs,  and  he  was  again  left 
alone. 

After  standinsj  there  a  short  time  he  went  to  the 
front  door  and  looked  out ;  till,  softly  closing  it  behind 
him,  he  advanced  and  stood  under  the  large  sycamore- 
tree.  The  stars  were  flickering  coldly,  and  the  damp- 
ness which  had  just  descended  upon  the  earth  in  rain 
now  sent  up  a  chill  from  it.  Darton  was  in  a  strange 
position,  and  he  felt  it.  The  unexpected  appearance, 
in  deep  poverty,  of  Helena — a  young  lady,  daughter  of 
a  deceased  naval  officer,  who  had  been  brought  up  by 
her  uncle,  a  solicitor,  and  had  refused  Darton  in  marriage 
years  ago — the  passionate,  almost  angry  demeanour  of 
Sally  at  discovering  them,  the  abrupt  announcement  that 
Helena  was  a  widow;  all  this  coming  together  was  a 
conjuncture  difficult  to  cope  with  in  a  moment,  and 
made  him  question  whether  he  ought  to  leave  the  house 
or  offer  assistance.  But  for  Sally's  manner  he  would 
unhesitatingly  have  done  the  latter. 

He  was  still  standing  under  the  tree  when  the  door 
in  front  of  him  opened,  and  Mrs.  Hall  came  out.  She 
went  round  to  the  garden-gate  at  the  side  without 
seeing  him.     Darton  followed  her,  intending  to  speak, 

198 


INTERLOPERS  AT  THE   KNAP 

Pausing  outside,  as  if  in  thought,  she  proceeded  to  a 
spot  where  the  sun  came  earliest  in  spring-time,  and 
where  the  north  wind  never  blew ;  it  was  where  the 
row  of  beehives  stood  under  the  wall.  Discerning  her 
object,  he  waited  till  she  had  accomplished  it. 

It  was  the  universal  custom  thereabout  to  wake  the 
bees  by  tapping  at  their  hives  whenever  a  death  occurred 
in  the  household,  under  the  behef  that  if  this  were  not 
done  the  bees  themselves  would  pine  away  and  perish 
during  the  ensuing  year.  As  soon  as  an  interior  buzzing 
responded  to  her  tap  at  the  first  hive  Mrs.  Hall  went 
on  to  the  second,  and  thus  passed  down  the  row.  As 
soon  as  she  came  back  he  met  her. 

*What  can  I  do  in  this  trouble,  Mrs.  Hall?'  he 
said. 

*0 — nothing,  thank  you,  nothing,'  she  said  in  a 
tearful  voice,  now  just  perceiving  him.  'We  have 
called  Rebekah  and  her  husband,  and  they  will  do 
everything  necessary.'  She  told  him  in  a  few  words 
the  particulars  of  her  son's  arrival,  broken  in  health 
— indeed,  at  death's  very  door,  though  they  did  not 
suspect  it — and  suggested,  as  the  result  of  a  conversa- 
tion between  her  and  her  daughter,  that  the  wedding 
should  be  postponed. 

*Yes,  of  course,'  said  Darton.  *I  think  now  to 
go  straight  to  the  inn  and  tell  Johns  what  has  hap- 
pened.' It  was  not  till  after  he  had  shaken  hands 
with  her  that  he  turned  hesitatingly  and  added,  'Will 
you  tell  the  mother  of  his  children  that,  as  they  are 
now  left  fatherless,  I  shall  be  glad  to  take  the  eldest 
of  them,  if  it  would  be  any  convenience  to  her  and  to 
you  ? ' 

Mrs.  Hall  promised  that  her  son's  widow  should  be 
told  of  the  offer,  and  they  parted.  He  retired  down 
the  rooty  slope  and  disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the 
inn,  where  he  informed  Johns  of  the  circumstances. 
Meanwhile  Mrs.  Hall  had  entered  the  house.      Sallj 

199 


WESSEX  TALES 

was  downstairs  in  the  sitting-room  alone,  and  her  mother 
explained  to  her  that  Darton  had  readily  assented  to 
the  postponement. 

*  No  doubt  he  has,'  said  Sally,  with  sad  emphasis. 
*It  is  not  put  off  for  a  week,  or  a  month,  or  a  year. 
I  sh^U  never  marry  him,  and  she  will  I ' 


IV 

Time  passed,  and  the  household  on  the  Knap  became 
again  serene  under  the  composing  influences  of  daily 
routine.  A  desultory,  very  desultory  correspondence, 
dragged  on  between  Sally  Hall  and  Darton,  who,  not 
quite  knowing  how  to  take  her  petulant  words  on  the 
night  of  her  brother's  death,  had  continued  passive  thus 
loner,  Helena  and  her  children  remained  at  the  dairy- 
house,  almost  of  necessity,  and  Darton  therefore  deemed 
it  advisable  to  stay  away. 

One  day,  seven  months  later  on,  when  Mr.  Darton 
was  as  usual  at  his  farm,  twenty  miles  from  Hintock, 
a  note  reached  him  from  Helena.  She  thanked  him 
for  his  kind  offer  about  her  children,  which  her  mother- 
in-law  had  duly  communicated,  and  stated  that  she 
would  be  glad  to  accept  it  as  regarded  the  eldest,  the 
boy.  Helena  had,  in  truth,  good  need  to  do  so,  for 
her  uncle  had  left  her  penniless,  and  all  application  to 
some  relatives  in  the  north  had  failed.  There  was, 
besides,  as  she  said,  no  good  school  near  Hintock  to 
which  she  could  send  the  child. 

On  a  fine  summer  day  the  boy  came.  He  was 
accompanied  half-way  by  Sally  and  his  mother — to  the 
♦  White  Horse,'  at  Chalk  Newton — where  he  was  handed 
over  to  Darton's  bailiff  in  a  shining  spring-cart,  who 
met  them  there. 

201 


WESSEX  TALES 

He  was  entered  as  a  day-scholar  at  a  popular  school 
at  Casterbridge,  three  or  four  miles  from  Barton's, 
having  first  been  taught  by  Darton  to  ride  a  forest- 
pony,  on  which  he  cantered  to  and  from  the  aforesaid 
fount  of  knowledge,  and  (as  Darton  hoped)  brought 
away  a  promising  headful  of  the  same  at  each  diurnal 
expedition.  The  thoughtful  taciturnity  into  which 
Darton  had  latterly  fallen  was  quite  dissipated  by  the 
presence  of  this  boy. 

When  the  Christmas  holidays  came  it  was  arranged 
that  he  should  spend  them  with  his  mother.  The 
journey  was,  for  some  reason  or  other,  performed  in 
two  stages,  as  at  his  coming,  except  that  Darton  in 
person  took  the  place  of  the  bailiff,  and  that  the  boy 
and  himself  rode  on  horseback. 

Reaching  the  renowned  White  Horse,'  Darton  in- 
quired if  Miss  and  young  Mrs.  Hall  were  there  to 
meet  little  Philip  (as  they  had  agreed  to  be).  He  was 
answered  by  the  appearance  of  Helena  alone  at  the  door. 

'At  the  last  moment  Sally  would  not  come,'  she 
faltered. 

That  meeting  practically  settled  the  point  towards 
which  these  long-severed  persons  were  converging. 
But  nothing  was  broached  about  it  for  some  time  yet. 
Sally  Hall  had,  in  fact,  imparted  the  first  decisive 
motion  to  events  by  refusing  to  accompany  Helena. 
She  soon  gave  them  a  second  move  by  writing  the 
following  note : — 

'[Privafe.] 

*  Dear  Charles, — Living  here  so  long  and  intimately  with 
Helena,  I  have  naturally  learnt  her  history,  especially  that  of  it 
which  refers  to  you.  I  am  sure  she  would  accept  you  as  a  husband 
at  the  proper  time,  and  I  think  you  ought  to  give  her  the  oppor- 
tunity. You  inquire  in  an  old  note  if  I  am  sorry  that  I  showed 
temper  (which  it  wasn't)  that  night  when  I  heard  you  talking  to  her. 
No,  Charles,  I  am  not  sorry  at  all  for  what  I  said  then.— Yours 
•incerely,  Saixy  Hall.' 

203 


INTERLOPERS  AT  THE   KNAP 

Thus  set  in  train,  the  transfer  of  Darton's  heart  back 
to  its  original  quarters  proceeded  by  mere  lapse  of 
time.  In  the  following  July,  Darton  went  to  his  friend 
Japheth  to  ask  him  at  last  to  fulfil  the  bridal  office 
which  had  been  in  abeyance  since  the  previous  January 
twelvemonths. 

'  With  all  my  heart,  man  o'  constancy  1 '  said  Dairy- 
man Johns  warmly.  *  I've  lost  most  of  my  genteel  fair 
complexion  haymaking  this  hot  weather,  'tis  true,  but 
I'll  do  your  business  as  well  as  them  that  look  better. 
There  be  scents  and  good  hair-oil  in  the  world  yet, 
thank  God,  and  they'll  take  off  the  roughest  o'  my  edge. 
I'll  compliment  her.  "  Better  late  than  never,  Sally 
Hall,"  I'll  say.' 

'  It  is  not  Sally,'  said  Darton  hurriedly.  '  It  is  young 
Mrs.  Hall.' 

Japheth's  face,  as  soon  as  he  really  comprehended, 
became  a  picture  of  reproachful  dismay.  '  Not  Sally  ? ' 
he  said.  '  Why  not  Sally  ?  I  can't  believe  it !  Young 
Mrs.  Hall !     Well,  well — whore's  your  wisdom  ? ' 

Darton  shortly  explained  particulars ;  but  Johns 
would  not  be  reconciled.  '  She  was  a  woman  worth 
having  if  ever  woman  was,'  he  cried.  '  And  now  to  let 
her  go ! ' 

'  But  I  suppose  I  can  marry  where  I  like,'  said 
Darton. 

'  H'm,'  replied  the  dairyman,  lifting  his  eyebrows  ex- 
pressively. '  This  don't  become  you,  Charles — it  really 
do  not.  If  I  had  done  such  a  thing  you  would  have 
sworn  I  was  a  curst  no'thern  fool  to  be  drawn  off  the 
scent  by  such  a  red-herring  doU-oll-oU.' 

Farmer  Darton  responded  in  such  sharp  terms  to 
this  laconic  opinion  that  the  two  friends  finally  parted 
in  a  way  they  had  never  parted  before.  Johns  was  to 
be  no  groomsman  to  Darton  after  all.  He  had  flatly 
declined.  Darton  went  off  sorry,  and  even  unhappy, 
particularly  as  Japheth  was  about   to   leave  that   side 

203 


WESSEX  TALES 

of  the  county,  so  that  the  words  which  had  divided 
them  were  not  likely  to  be  explained  away  or  softened 
down. 

A  short  time  after  the  interview  Darton  was  united 
to  Helena  at  a  simple  matter-of  fact  wedding;  and  she 
and  her  little  girl  joined  the  boy  who  had  already  grown 
to  look  on  Barton's  house  as  home. 

For  some  months  the  farmer  experienced  an  unpre- 
cedented happiness  and  satisfaction.  There  had  been 
a  flaw  in  his  life,  and  it  was  as  neatly  mended  as  was 
humanly  possible.  But  after  a  season  the  stream  of 
events  followed  less  clearly,  and  there  were  shades  in  his 
reveries.  Helena  was  a  fragile  woman,  of  little  staying 
power,  physically  or  morally,  and  since  the  time  that  he 
had  originally  known  her — eight  or  ten  years  before — 
she  had  been  severely  tried.  She  had  loved  herself  out, 
in  short,  and  was  now  occasionally  given  to  moping. 
Sometimes  she  spoke  regretfully  of  the  gentilities  of  her 
early  life,  and  instead  of  comparing  her  present  state 
with  her  condition  as  the  wife  of  the  unlucky  Hall,  she 
mused  rather  on  what  it  had  been  before  she  took  the 
first  fatal  step  of  clandestinely  marrying  him.  She  did 
not  care  to  please  such  people  as  those  with  whom  she 
was  thrown  as  a  thriving  farmer's  wife.  She  allowed 
the  pretty  trifles  of  agricultural  domesticity  to  glide  by 
her  as  sorry  details,  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  children 
Darton's  house  would  have  seemed  but  little  brighter 
than  it  had  been  before. 

This  led  to  occasional  unpleasantness,  until  Darton 
sometimes  declared  to  himself  that  such  endeavours  as 
his  to  rectify  early  deviations  of  the  heart  by  harking 
back  to  the  old  point  mostly  failed  of  success.  '  Per- 
haps Johns  was  right,'  he  would  say.  '  I  should  have 
gone  on  with  Sally.  Better  go  with  the  tide  and  make 
the  best  of  its  course  than  stem  it  at  the  risk  of  a 
capsize.'  But  he  kept  these  unmelodious  thoughts  to 
himself,  and  was  outwardly  considerate  and  kind. 

204 


INTERLOPERS  AT  THE  KNAP 

This  somewhat  barren  tract  of  his  life  had  extended 
to  less  than  a  year  and  a  half  when  his  ponderings  were 
cut  short  by  the  loss  of  the  woman  they  concerned. 
When  she  was  in  her  grave  he  thought  better  of  her 
than  when  she  had  been  alive ;  the  farm  was  a  worse 
place  without  her  than  wnth  her,  after  all.  No  woman 
short  of  divine  could  have  gone  through  such  an 
experience  as  hers  with  her  first  husband  without  be- 
coming a  little  soured.  Her  stagnant  sympathies,  her 
sometimes  unreasonable  manner,  had  covered  a  heart 
frank  and  well  meaning,  and  originally  hopeful  and 
warm.  She  left  him  a  tiny  red  infant  in  white  wrappings. 
To  make  life  as  easy  as  possible  to  this  touching  object 
became  at  once  his  care. 

As  this  child  learnt  to  walk  and  talk  Darton  learnt  to 
see  feasibility  in  a  scheme  which  pleased  him.  Revolv- 
ing the  experiment  which  he  had  hitherto  made  upon 
life,  he  fancied  he  had  gained  wisdom  from  his  mistakes 
and  caution  from  his  miscarriages. 

What  the  scheme  was  needs  no  penetration  to  dis- 
cover. Once  more  he  had  opportunity  to  recast  and 
rectify  his  ill-wrought  situations  by  returning  to  Sally 
Hall,  who  still  lived  quietly  on  under  her  mother's  roof 
at  Hintock.  Helena  had  been  a  woman  to  lend  pathos 
and  refinement  to  a  home;  Sally  was  the  woman  to 
brighten  it.  She  would  not,  as  Helena  did,  despise  the 
rural  simplicities  of  a  farmer's  fireside.  Moreover,  she 
had  a  pre-eminent  qualification  for  Barton's  household ; 
no  other  woman  could  make  so  desirable  a  mother  to 
her  brother's  two  children  and  Barton's  one  as  Sally — 
while  Barton,  now  that  Helena  had  gone,  wajs  a  more 
promising  husband  for  Sally  than  he  had  ever  been 
when  liable  to  reminders  from  an  uncured  sentimental 
wound. 

Barton  was  not  a  man  to  act  rapidly,  and  the  work- 
ing out  of  his  reparative  designs  might  have  been  delayed 
for  some  time.     But  there  came  a  winter  evening  pr©" 

205 


WESSEX  TALES 

cisely  like  the  one  which  had  darkened  over  that  former 
ride  to  Hintock,  and  he  asked  himself  why  he  should 
postpone  longer,  when  the  very  landscape  called  for  a 
repetition  of  that  attempt. 

He  told  his  man  to  saddle  the  mare,  booted  and 
spurred  himself  with  a  younger  horseman's  nicety, 
kissed  the  two  youngest  children,  and  rode  off.  To 
make  the  journey  a  complete  parallel  to  the  first,  he 
would  fain  have  had  his  old  acquaintance  Japheth 
Johns  with  him.  But  Johns,  alas  1  was  missing.  His 
removal  to  the  other  side  of  the  county  had  left  unre- 
paired the  breach  which  had  arisen  between  him  and 
Darton ;  and  though  Darton  had  forgiven  him  a  hundred 
times,  as  Johns  had  probably  forgiven  Darton,  the  effort 
of  reunion  in  present  circumstances  was  one  not  likely 
to  be  made. 

He  screwed  himself  up  to  as  cheerful  a  pitch  as  he 
could  without  his  former  crony,  and  became  content 
with  his  own  thoughts  as  he  rode,  instead  of  the  words 
of  a  companion.  The  sun  went  down;  the  boughs 
appeared  scratched  in  like  an  etching  against  the  sky ; 
old  crooked  men  with  faggots  at  their  backs  said 
'Good-night,  sir,'  and  Darton  replied  *  Good-night' 
right  heartily. 

By  the  time  he  reached  the  forking  roads  it  was 
getting  as  dark  as  it  had  been  on  the  occasion  when 
Johns  climbed  the  directing-post.  Darton  made  no 
mistake  this  time.  '  Nor  shall  I  be  able  to  mistake, 
thank  Heaven,  when  I  arrive,'  he  murmured.  It  gave 
him  peculiar  satisfaction  to  think  that  the  proposed 
marriage,  like  his  first,  was  of  the  nature  of  setting  in 
order  things  long  awry,  and  not  a  momentary  freak  of 
fancy. 

Nothing  hindered  the  smoothness  of  his  journey, 
which  seemed  not  half  its  former  length.  Though 
dark,  it  was  only  between  five  and  six  olclock  when  the 
bulky  chimneys  of  Mrs.  Hall's  residence  appeared  in 

2o6 


INTERLOPERS  AT  THE  KNAP 

view  behind  the  sycamore-tree.  On  second  thoughts 
he  retreated  and  put  up  at  the  ale-house  as  in  former 
time ;  and  when  he  had  plumed  himself  before  the  inn 
mirror,  called  for  something  to  drink,  and  smoothed 
out  the  incipient  wrinkles  of  care,  he  walked  on  to  the 
Knap  with  a  quick  step. 


1  HAT  evening  Sally  was  making  '  pinners '  for  the 
milkers,  who  were  now  increased  by  two,  for  her  mother 
and  herself  no  longer  joined  in  milking  the  cows  them- 
selves. But  upon  the  whole  there  was  little  change  in 
the  household  economy,  and  not  much  in  its  appearance, 
beyond  such  minor  particulars  as  that  the  crack  over 
the  window,  which  had  been  a  hundred  years  coming, 
was  a  trifle  wider ;  that  the  beams  were  a  shade  blacker ; 
that  the  influence  of  modernism  had  supplanted  the 
open  chimney  corner  by  a  grate;  that  Rebekah,  who 
had  worn  a  cap  when  she  had  plenty  of  hair,  had  left  it 
off  now  she  had  scarce  any,  because  it  was  reported  that 
caps  were  not  fashionable;  and  that  Sally's  face  had 
naturally  assumed  a  more  womanly  and  experienced  cast. 

Mrs.  Hall  was  actually  lifting  coals  with  the  tongs, 
as  she  had  used  to  do. 

*  Five  years  ago  this  very  night,  if  I  am  not  mis- 
taken  '  she  said,  laying  on  an  ember. 

'  Not  this  very  night — though  'twas  one  night  this 
week,'  said  the  correct  Sally. 

'  Well,  'tis  near  enough.  Five  years  ago  Mr.  Darton 
came  to  marry  you,  and  my  poor  boy  Phil  came  home 
to  die.'  She  sighed  'Ah,  Sally,'  she  presently  said, 
*  if  you  had  managed  well  Mr.  Darton  would  have  had 
you,  Helena  or  none.' 

208 


INTERLOPERS  AT  THE  KNAP 

•Don't  be  sentimental  about  that,  mother,'  begged 
Sally.  *  I  didn't  care  to  manage  well  in  such  a  case. 
Though  I  Uked  him,  I  wasn't  so  anxious.  I  would 
never  have  married  the  man  in  the  midst  of  such  a 
hitch  as  that  was,'  she  added  with  decision;  'and  I 
don't  think  I  would  if  he  were  to  ask  me  now.* 

•  I  am  not  sure  about  that,  unless  you  have  another 
in  your  eye.' 

•  I  wouldn't ;  and  I'll  tell  you  why.  I  could  hardly 
marry  him  for  love  at  this  time  o'  day.  And  as  we've 
quite  enough  to  live  on  if  we  give  up  the  dairy  to- 
morrow, I  should  have  no  need  to  marry  for  any  meaner 
reason.  ...  I  am  quite  happy  enough  as  I  am,  and 
there's  an  end  of  it.' 

Now  it  was  not  long  after  this  dialogue  that  there 
came  a  mild  rap  at  the  door,  and  in  a  moment  there 
entered  Rebekah,  looking  as  though  a  ghost  had 
arrived.  The  fact  was  that  that  accomplished  skimmer 
and  churner  (now  a  resident  in  the  house)  had  over- 
heard the  desultory  observations  between  mother  and 
daughter,  and  on  opening  the  door  to  Mr.  Darton 
thought  the  coincidence  must  have  a  grisly  meaning  in 
it.  Mrs.  Hall  welcomed  the  farmer  with  warm  surprise, 
as  did  Sally,  and  for  a  moment  they  rather  wanted 
words. 

•  Can  you  push  up  the  chimney-crook  for  me,  Mr. 
Darton  ?  the  notches  hitch,'  said  the  matron.  He  did 
it,  and  the  homely  little  act  bridged  over  the  awkward 
consciousness  that  he  had  been  a  stranger  for  four  years. 

Mrs.  Hall  soon  saw  what  he  had  come  for,  and  left 
the  principals  together  while  she  went  to  prepare  him 
a  late  tea,  smiling  at  Sally's  recent  hasty  assertions  of 
indifierence,  when  she  saw  how  civil  Sally  was.  When 
tea  was  ready  she  joined  them.  She  fancied  that  Darton 
did  not  iDok  so  confident  as  when  he  had  arrived ; 
but  Sally  vas  quite  light-hearted,  and  the  meal  passed 
pleasantly. 

209  O 


WESSEX   TALES 

About  seven  he  took  his  leave  of  them.  Mrs.  Hall 
went  as  far  as  the  door  to  light  him  down  the  slope. 
On  the  doorstep  he  said  frankly — 

*  I  came  to  ask  your  daughter  to  marry  me ;  chose 
the  night  and  everything,  with  an  eye  to  a  favourable 
answer.     But  she  won't.' 

'  Then  she's  a  very  ungrateful  girl  I  *  emphatically 
said  Mrs.  Hall. 

Darton  paused  to  shape  his  sentence,  and  asked,  •  I 
— I  suppose  there's  nobody  else  more  favoured  ? ' 

« I  can't  say  that  there  is,  or  that  there  isn't,'  answered 
Mrs.  Hall.  'She's  private  in  some  things.  I'm  on 
your  side,  however,  Mr.  Darton,  and  I'll  talk  to  her.* 

« Thank  'ee,  thank  'ee  ! '  said  the  farmer  in  a  gayer 
accent ;  and  with  this  assurance  the  not  very  satisfactory 
visit  came  to  an  end.  Darton  descended  the  roots  of 
the  sycamore,  the  light  was  withdrawn,  and  the  door 
closed.  At  the  bottom  of  the  slope  he  nearly  ran 
against  a  man  about  to  ascend. 

'  Can  a  jack-o'-lent  behave  his  few  senses  on  such  a 
dark  night,  or  can't  he  ?  '  exclaimed  one  whose  utterance 
Darton  recognized  in  a  moment,  despite  its  unexpected- 
ness. '  I  dare  not  swear  he  can,  though  I  fain  would ! ' 
The  speaker  was  Johns. 

Darton  said  he  was  glad  of  this  opportunity,  bad  as 
it  was,  of  putting  an  end  to  the  silence  of  years,  and 
asked  the  dairyman  what  he  was  travelling  that  way  for. 
Japheth  showed  the  old  jovial  confidence  in  a 
moment.  *  I'm  going  to  see  your — relations — as  they 
always  seem  to  me,'  he  said — '  Mrs.  Hall  and  Sally. 
Well,  Charles,  the  fact  is  I  find  the  natural  barbarous- 
ness  of  man  is  much  increased  by  a  bachelor  life,  and, 
as  your  leavings  were  always  good  enough  for  me,  I'm 
trying  civilization  here.'  He  nodded  towards  the  house. 
*  Not  with  Sally  —  to  marry  her  ?  '  said  Darton, 
feeling  something  like  a  rill  of  ice  water  between  his 
shoulders. 

axo 


INTERLOPERS  AT  THE  KNAP 

•Yes,  by  the  help  of  Providence  and  my  personal 
charms.  And  I  think  I  shall  get  her.  I  am  this  road 
every  week — my  present  dairy  is  only  four  miles  off,  you 
know,  and  I  see  her  through  the  window,  'Tis  rather 
odd  that  I  was  going  to  speak  practical  to-night  to  her 
for  the  first  time.     You've  just  called  ? ' 

'  Yes,  for  a  short  while.  But  she  didn't  say  a  word 
about  you.' 

*A  good  sign,  a  good  sign.  Now  that  decides  me. 
I'll  swing  the  mallet  and  get  her  answer  this  very  night 
as  I  planned.' 

A  few  more  remarks,  and  Darton,  wishing  his  friend 
joy  of  Sally  in  a  slightly  hollow  tone  of  jocularity,  bade 
him  good-bye.  Johns  promised  to  write  particulars, 
and  ascended,  and  was  lost  in  the  shade  of  the  house 
and  tree.  A  rectangle  of  light  appeared  when  Johns 
was  admitted,  and  all  was  dark  again. 

*  Happy  Japheth ! '  said  Darton.  *  This  then  is  the 
explanation ! ' 

He  determined  to  return  home  that  night.  In  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  he  passed  out  of  the  village,  and 
the  next  day  went  about  his  swede-lifting  and  storing 
as  if  nothing  had  occurred. 

He  waited  and  waited  to  hear  from  Johns  whether 
the  wedding-day  was  fixed :  but  no  letter  came.  He 
learnt  not  a  single  particular  till,  meeting  Johns  one 
day  at  a  horse-auction,  Darton  exclaimed  genially — 
rather  more  genially  than  he  felt — '  When  is  the  joyful 
day  to  be  ?  * 

To  his  great  surprise  a  reciprocity  of  gladness  was 
not  conspicuous  in  Johns.  *Not  at  all,'  he  said,  in  a 
very  subdued  tone.  *  'Tis  a  bad  job ;  she  won't  have 
me.' 

Darton  held  his  breath  till  he  said  with  treacherous 
solicitude,  'Try  again — 'tis  coyness.' 

*0  no,'  said  Johns  decisively.  'There's  been  none 
of  that.     We  talked  it  over  dozens  of  times  in  the  most 

211 


WESSEX  TALES 

fair  and  square  way.  She  tells  me  plainly,  I  don't  suit 
her.  'Twould  be  simply  annoying  her  to  ask  her  again. 
Ah,  Charles,  you  threw  a  prize  away  when  you  let  her 
slip  five  years  ago.' 

'  I  did — I  did,'  said  Darton. 

He  returned  from  that  auction  with  a  new  set  of 
feelings  in  play.  He  had  certainly  made  a  surprising 
mistake  in  thinking  Johns  his  successful  rival.  It  really 
seemed  as  if  he  might  hope  for  Sally  after  all. 

This  time,  being  rather  pressed  by  business,  Darton 
had  recourse  to  pen-and-ink,  and  wrote  her  as  manly 
and  straightforward  a  proposal  as  any  woman  could 
wish  to  receive.     The  reply  came  promptly  : — 

'Dear  Mr.  Darton, — I  am  as  sensible  as  any  woman  can  be 
of  the  goodness  that  leads  you  to  make  me  this  offer  a  second  time. 
Better  women  than  I  would  be  proud  of  the  honour,  for  when  I 
read  your  nice  long  speeches  on  mangold-wurzel,  and  such  like 
topics,  at  the  Casterbridge  Farmers'  Club,  I  do  feel  it  an  honour,  I 
assure  you.  But  my  answer  is  just  the  same  as  before.  I  will  not 
try  to  explain  what,  in  truth,  I  cannot  explain — my  reasons ;  I  will 
simply  say  that  I  must  decline  to  be  married  to  you.  With  good 
wishes  as  in  former  times,  I  am,  your  faithful  friend, 

'  Sally  Hall.' 

Darton  dropped  the  letter  hopelessly.  Beyond  the 
negative,  there  was  just  a  possibility  of  sarcasm  in  it 
— '  nice  long  speeches  on  mangold-wurzel '  had  a  sus- 
picious sound.  However,  sarcasm  or  none,  there  was 
the  answer,  and  he  had  to  be  content. 

He  proceeded  to  seek  relief  in  a  business  which  at 
this  time  engrossed  much  of  his  attention — that  of  clear- 
ing up  a  curious  mistake  just  current  in  the  county, 
that  he  had  been  nearly  ruined  by  the  recent  failure  of 
a  local  bank.  A  farmer  named  Darton  had  lost  heavily, 
and  the  similarity  of  name  had  probably  led  to  the  error. 
Belief  in  it  was  so  persistent  that  it  demanded  several 
days  of  letter-writing  to  set  matters  straight,  and  per- 

212 


I 


INTERLOPERS  AT  THE  KNAP 

suade  the  world  that  he  was  as  solvent  as  ever  he  had 
been  in  his  Ufe.  He  had  hardly  concluded  this  worry- 
ing task  when,  to  his  delight,  another  letter  arrived  in 
the  handwriting  of  Sally. 

Darton  tore  it  open ;  it  was  very  short. 

'  Dear  Mr.  Darton, — We  have  been  so  alarmed  these  last  few 

days  by  the  report  that  you  were  ruined  by  the  stoppage  of 's 

Bank,  that,  now  it  is  contradicted  I  hasten,  by  my  mother's  wish, 
to  say  how  truly  glad  we  are  to  find  there  is  no  foundation  for  the 
report.  After  your  kindness  to  my  poor  brother's  children,  I  can 
do  no  less  than  write  at  such  a  moment.  We  had  a  letter  from 
each  of  them  a  few  days  ago. — Your  faithful  friend, 

*  Sali.y  Hall.' 

*  Mercenary  little  woman  ! '  said  Darton  to  himself 
with  a  smile.  *  Then  that  was  the  secret  of  her  refusal 
this  time — she  thought  I  was  ruined.' 

Now,  such  was  Darton,  that  as  hours  went  on  he 
could  not  help  feeling  too  generously  towards  Sally  to 
condemn  her  in  this.  What  did  he  want  in  a  wife? 
he  asked  himself.  Love  and  integrity.  What  next? 
Worldly  wisdom.  And  was  there  really  more  than 
worldly  wisdom  in  her  refusal  to  go  aboard  a  sinking 
ship?  She  now  knew  it  was  otherwise.  'Begad,'  he 
said,  *  I'll  try  her  again.' 

The  fact  was  he  had  so  set  his  heart  upon  Sally,  and 
Sally  alone,  that  nothing  was  to  be  allowed  to  baulk 
him ;  and  his  reasoning  was  purely  formal. 

Anniversaries  having  been  unpropitious,  he  waited 
on  till  a  bright  day  late  in  May — a  day  when  all  animate 
nature  was  fancying,  in  its  trusting,  foolish  way,  that  it 
was  going  to  bask  out  of  doors  for  evermore.  As  he 
rode  through  Long-Ash  Lane  it  was  scarce  recognizable 
as  the  track  of  his  two  winter  journeys.  No  mistake 
could  be  made  now,  even  with  his  eyes  shut.  The 
cuckoo's  note  was  at  its  best,  between  April  tentative- 
ness  and  midsummer  decrepitude,  and  the  reptiles  in 

21.^ 


WESSEX  TALES 

the  sun  behaved  as  winningly  as  kittens  on  a  hearth. 
Though  afternoon,  and  about  the  same  time  as  on  the 
last  occasion,  it  was  broad  day  and  sunshine  when  he 
entered  Hintock,  and  the  details  of  the  Knap  dairy- 
house  were  visible  far  up  the  road.  He  saw  Sally  in 
the  garden,  and  was  set  vibrating.  He  had  first  in- 
tended to  go  on  to  the  inn ;  but  '  No,'  he  said ;  '  I'll 
tie  my  horse  to  the  garden-gate.  If  all  goes  well  it  can 
soon  be  taken  round  :  if  not,  I  mount  and  ride  away.' 

The  tall  shade  of  the  horseman  darkened  the  room 
in  which  Mrs.  Hall  sat,  and  made  her  start,  for  he  had 
ridden  by  a  side  path  to  the  top  of  the  slope,  where 
riders  seldom  came.  In  a  few  seconds  he  was  in  the 
garden  with  Sally. 

Five— ay,  three  minutes — did  the  business  at  the 
back  of  that  row  of  bees.  Though  spring  had  come, 
and  heavenly  blue  consecrated  the  scene,  Darton  suc- 
ceeded not.  'No,'  said  Sally  firmly.  'I  will  never, 
never  marry  you,  Mr.  Darton.  I  would  have  done  it 
once  ;  but  now  I  never  can.' 

•  But ! ' — implored  Mr.  Darton.  And  with  a  burst  of 
real  eloquence  he  went  on  to  declare  all  sorts  of  things 
that  he  would  do  for  her.  He  would  drive  her  to  see 
her  mother  every  week — take  her  to  London — settle  so 
much  money  upon  her — Heaven  knows  what  he  did  not 
promise,  suggest,  and  tempt  her  with.  But  it  availed 
nothing.  She  interposed  with  a  stout  negative,  which 
closed  the  course  of  his  argument  like  an  iron  gate 
across  a  highway.     Darton  paused. 

•Then,'  said  he  simply,  «you  hadn't  heard  of  my 
supposed  failure  when  you  declined  last  time  ? ' 

•  I  had  not,*  she  said.  '  But  if  I  had  'twould  have 
been  all  the  same.' 

•  And  'tis  not  because  of  any  soreness  from  my 
slighting  you  years  ago  ? ' 

'  No.     That  soreness  is  long  past.* 
'  Ah — then  you  despise  me,  Sally  I ' 

214 


INTERLOPERS  AT  THE  KNAP 

•  No,*  she  slowly  answered.  '  I  don't  altogether 
despise  you.  I  don't  think  you  quite  such  a  hero  as 
I  once  did — that's  all.  The  truth  is,  I  am  happy 
enough  as  I  am;  and  I  don't  mean  to  marry  at  all. 
Now,  may  /  ask  a  favour,  sir  ? '  She  spoke  with  an 
ineffable  charm,  which,  whenever  he  thought  of  it,  made 
him  curse  his  loss  of  her  as  long  as  he  lived. 

*To  any  extent' 

'Please  do  not  put  this  question  to  me  any  more. 
Friends  as  long  as  you  like,  but  lovers  and  married 
never.* 

'  I  never  will,'  said  Darton.  '  Not  if  I  live  a  hundred 
years.' 

And  he  never  did.  That  he  had  worn  out  his 
welcome  in  her  heart  was  only  too  plain. 

When  his  step-children  had  grown  up,  and  were 
placed  out  in  life,  all  communication  between  Darton 
and  the  Hall  family  ceased.  It  was  only  by  chance 
that,  years  after,  he  learnt  that  Sally,  notwithstanding 
the  solicitations  her  attractions  drew  down  upon  her, 
had  refused  several  offers  of  marriage,  and  steadily 
adhered  to  her  purpose  of  leading  a  single  life. 

May  1884. 


THE  DISTRACTED  PREACHER 


HOW  HIS  COLD  WAS  CURED 


Something  delayed  the  arrival  of  the  Wesleyan 
minister,  and  a  young  man  came  temporarily  in  his 
stead.  It  was  on  the  thirteenth  of  January  183-  that 
Mr.  Stockdale,  the  young  man  in  question,  made  his 
humble  entry  into  the  village,  unknown,  and  almost 
unseen.  But  when  those  of  the  inhabitants  who  styled 
themselves  of  his  connection  became  acquainted  with 
him,  they  were  rather  pleased  with  the  substitute  than 
otherwise,  though  he  had  scarcely  as  yet  acquired 
ballast  of  character  sufficient  to  steady  the  consciences 
of  the  hundred-and-forty  Methodists  of  pure  blood  who, 
at  this  time,  lived  in  Nether-Moynton,  and  to  give  in 
addition  supplementary  support  to  the  mixed  race 
which  went  to  church  in  the  morning  and  chapel  in 
the  evening  or  when  there  was  a  tea — as  many  as  a 
hundred-and-ten  people  more,  all  told,  and  including 
the  parish-clerk  in  the  winter-time,  when  it  was  too 
dark  for  the  vicar  to  observe  who  passed  up  the  street 
at  seven  o'clock — which,  to  be  just  to  him,  he  was 
never  anxious  to  do. 

It  was  owing  to  this  overlapping  of  creeds  that  the 
celebrated    population-puzzle   arose   among   the  denser 

219 


WESSEX  TALES 

gentry  of  the  district  around  Nether-Moynton :  how 
could  it  be  that  a  parish  containing  fifteen  score  of 
strong  full-grown  Episcopalians,  and  nearly  thirteen 
score  of  well-matuied  Dissenters,  numbered  barely  two- 
and-twenty  score  adults  in  all  ? 

The  young  man  being  personally  interesting,  those 
with  whom  he  came  in  contact  were  content  to  waive 
for  a  while  the  graver  question  of  his  sufficiency.  It 
is  said  that  at  this  time  of  his  life  his  eyes  were 
affectionate,  though  without  a  ray  of  levity;  that  his 
hair  was  curly,  and  his  figure  tall;  that  he  was,  in 
short,  a  very  lovable  youth,  who  won  upon  his  female 
hearers  as  soon  as  they  saw  and  heard  him,  and  caused 
them  to  say,  'Why  didn't  we  know  of  this  before  he 
came,  that  w,q  might  have  gied  him  a  warmer  welcome ! ' 

The  fact  was  that,  knowing  him  to  be  only  pro- 
visionally selected,  and  expecting  nothing  remarkable  in 
his  person  or  doctrine,  they  and  the  rest  of  his  flock 
in  Nether-Moynton  had  felt  almost  as  indifferent  about 
his  advent  as  if  they  had  been  the  soundest  church- 
going  parishioners  in  the  country,  and  he  their  true 
and  appointed  parson.  Thus  when  Stockdale  set  foot 
in  the  place  nobody  had  secured  a  lodging  for  him,  and 
though  his  journey  had  given  him  a  bad  cold  in  the 
head,  he  was  forced  to  attend  to  that  business  himself. 
On  inquiry  he  learnt  that  the  only  possible  accommoda- 
tion in  the  village  would  be  found  at  the  house  of  one 
Mrs.  Lizzy  Newberry,  at  the  upper  end  of  the  street. 

It  was  a  youth  who  gave  this  information,  and 
Stockdale  asked  him  who  Mrs.  Newberry  might  be. 

The  boy  said  that  she  was  a  widow-woman,  who 
had  got  no  husband,  because  he  was  dead.  Mr.  New- 
berry, he  added,  had  been  a  well-to-do  man  enough, 
as  the  saying  was,  and  a  farmer ;  but  he  had  gone  off 
in  a  decline.  As  regarded  Mrs.  Newberry's  serious  side, 
Stockdale  gathered  that  she  was  one  of  the  trimmers 
who  went  to  church  and  chapel  both. 

220 


THE   DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

'I'll  go  there,'  said  Stockdale,  feeling  that,  in  the 
absence  of  purely  sectarian  lodgings,  he  could  do  no 
better. 

'  She's  a  little  particular,  and  won't  hae  gover'ment 
folks,  or  curates,  or  the  pa'son's  friends,  or  such  like,' 
said  the  lad  dubiously. 

'  Ah,  that  may  be  a  promising  sign :  I'll  call.  Or 
no ;  just  you  go  up  and  ask  first  if  she  can  find  room 
for  me.  I  have  to  see  one  or  two  persons  on  another 
matter.     You  will  find  me  down  at  the  carrier's.' 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  lad  came  back,  and  said 
that  Mrs.  Newberry  would  have  no  objection  to  accom- 
modate him,  whereupon  Stockdale  called  at  the  house. 
It  stood  within  a  garden-hedge,  and  seemed  to  be 
roomy  and  comfortable.  He  saw  an  elderly  woman, 
with  whom  he  made  arrangements  to  come  the  same 
night,  since  there  was  no  inn  in  the  place,  and  he 
wished  to  house  himself  as  soon  as  possible ;  the  village 
being  a  local  centre  from  which  he  was  to  radiate  at 
once  to  the  different  small  chapels  in  the  neighbourhood. 
He  forthwith  sent  his  luggage  to  Mrs.  Newberry's  from 
the  carrier's,  where  he  had  taken  shelter,  and  in  the 
evening  walked  up  to  his  temporary  home. 

As  he  now  lived  there,  Stockdale  felt  it  unnecessary 
to  knock  at  the  door ;  and  entering  quietly  he  had  the 
pleasure  of  hearing  footsteps  scudding  away  like  mice 
into  the  back  quarters.  He  advanced  to  the  parlour, 
as  the  front  room  was  called,  though  its  stone  floor 
was  scarcely  disguised  by  the  carpet,  which  only  over- 
laid the  trodden  areas,  leaving  sandy  deserts  under  the 
furniture.  But  the  room  looked  snug  and  cheerful. 
The  firelight  shone  out  brightly,  trembling  on  the 
bulging  mouldings  of  the  table-legs,  playing  with  brass 
knobs  and  handles,  and  lurking  in  great  strength  on 
the  urider  surface  of  the  chimney-piece.  A  deep 
arm-chair,  covered  with  horsehair,  and  studded  with 
a  countless   throng  of  brass   nails,  was  pulled   up  on 

331 


WESSEX  TALES 

one  side  of  the  fireplace.  The  tea-things  were  on  the 
table,  the  teapot  cover  was  open,  and  a  little  hand- 
bell had  been  laid  at  that  precise  point  towards  which 
a  person  seated  in  the  great  chair  might  be  expected 
instinctively  to  stretch  his  hand. 

Stockdale  sat  down,  not  objecting  to  his  experience 
of  the  room  thus  far,  and  began  his  residence  by  tink- 
ling the  bell.  A  little  girl  crept  in  at  the  summons, 
and  made  tea  for  him.  Her  name,  she  said,  was 
Marther  Sarer,  and  she  lived  out  there,  nodding  towards 
the  road  and  village  generally.  Before  Stockdale  had 
got  far  with  his  meal,  a  tap  sounded  on  the  door 
behind  him,  and  on  his  telling  the  inquirer  to  come 
in,  a  rustle  of  garments  caused  him  to  turn  his  head. 
He  saw  before  him  a  fine  and  extremely  well-made 
young  woman,  with  dark  hair,  a  wide,  sensible,  beautiful 
forehead,  eyes  that  warmed  him  before  he  knew  it,  and 
a  mouth  that  was  in  itself  a  picture  to  all  appreciative 
souls. 

*  Can  I  get  you  anything  else  for  tea  ? '  she  said, 
coming  forward  a  step  or  two,  an  expression  of  liveliness 
on  her  features,  and  her  hand  waving  the  door  by 
its  edge. 

'Nothing,  thank  you,'  said  Stockdale,  thinking  less 
of  what  he  replied  than  of  what  might  be  her  relation 
to  the  household. 

*  You  are  quite  sure  ? '  said  the  young  woman,  appa- 
rently aware  that  he  had  not  considered  his  answer. 

He  conscientiously  examined  the  tea-things,  and  found 
them  all  there.     '  Quite  sure.  Miss  Newberry,'  he  said. 

*It  is  Mrs.  Newberry,'  she  said.  'Lizzy  Newberry. 
I  used  to  be  Lizzy  Simpkins.' 

'  O,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Newberry.'  And  before 
he  had  occasion  to  say  more  she  left  the  room. 

Stockdale  remained  in  some  doubt  till  Martha  Sarah 
came  to  clear  the  table.  'Whose  house  is  this,  my 
little  woman,'  said  he. 

222 


THE   DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

'  Mrs.  Lizzy  Newberry's,  sir.' 

*  Then  Mrs.  Newberry  is  not  the  old  lady  I  saw  this 
afternoon  ? ' 

'  No.  That's  Mrs.  Newberry's  mother.  It  was  Mrs. 
Newberry  who  corned  in  to  you  just  by  now,  because 
she  wanted  to  see  if  you  was  good-looking.' 

Later  in  the  evening,  when  Stockdale  was  about  to 
begin  supper,  she  came  again.  '  I  have  come  myself, 
Mr.  Stockdale,'  she  said.  The  minister  stood  up  in 
acknowledgment  of  the  honour.  '  I  am  afraid  little 
Marther  might  not  make  you  understand.  What  will 
you  have  for  supper? — there's  cold  rabbit,  and  there's 
a  ham  uncut.' 

Stockdale  said  he  could  get  on  nicely  with  those 
viands,  and  supper  was  laid.  He  had  no  more  than 
cut  a  slice  when  tap-tap  came  to  the  door  again.  The 
minister  had  already  learnt  that  this  particular  rhythm 
in  taps  denoted  the  fingers  of  his  enkindling  landlady, 
and  the  doomed  young  fellow  buried  his  first  mouthful 
under  a  look  of  receptive  blandness. 

*  We  have  a  chicken  in  the  house,  Mr.  Stockdale — I 
quite  forgot  to  mention  it  just  now.  Perhaps  you  would 
like  Marther  Sarer  to  bring  it  up  ? ' 

Stockdale  had  advanced  far  enough  in  the  art  of 
being  a  young  man  to  say  that  he  did  not  want  the 
chicken,  unless  she  brought  it  up  herself;  but  when  it 
was  uttered  he  blushed  at  the  daring  gallantry  of  the 
speech,  perhaps  a  shade  too  strong  for  a  serious  man 
and  a  minister.  In  three  minutes  the  chicken  appeared, 
but,  to  his  great  surprise,  only  in  the  hands  of  Martha 
Sarah.  Stockdale  was  disappointed,  which  perhaps  it 
was  intended  that  he  should  be. 

He  had  finished  supper,  and  was  not  in  the  least 
anticipating  Mrs.  Newberry  again  that  night,  when  she 
tapped  and  entered  as  before.  Stockdale's  gratified  look 
told  that  she  had  lost  nothing  by  not  appearing  when 
expected.     It  happened  that  the  cold  in  the  head  from 

223 


WESSEX  TALES 

which  the  young  man  suffered  had  increased  with  the 
approach  of  night,  and  before  she  had  spoken  he  was 
seized  with  a  violent  fit  of  sneezing  which  he  could  not 
anyhow  repress. 

Mrs.  Newberry  looked  full  of  pity.  '  Your  cold  is 
very  bad  to-night,  Mr.  Stockdale.' 

Stockdale  replied  that  it  was  rather  troublesome. 

'  And  I've  a  good  mind  ' — she  added  archly,  looking 
at  the  cheerless  glass  of  water  on  the  table,  which  the 
abstemious  minister  was  going  to  drink. 

'  Yes,  Mrs.  Newberry  ? ' 

*  I've  a  good  mind  that  you  should  have  something 
more  Hkely  to  cure  it  than  that  cold  stuff.' 

'Well,'  said  Stockdale,  looking  down  at  the  glass, 
*  as  there  is  no  inn  here,  and  nothmg  better  to  be  got 
in  the  village,  of  course  it  will  do.' 

To  this  she  replied,  '  There  is  something  better,  not 
far  off,  though  not  in  the  house.  I  really  think  you 
must  try  it,  or  you  may  be  ill.  Yes,  Mr.  Stockdale, 
you  shall.'  She  held  up  her  finger,  seeing  that  he  was 
about  to  speak.  '  Don't  ask  what  it  is ;  wait,  and  you 
shall  see.' 

Lizzy  went  away,  and  Stockdale  waited  in  a  pleasant 
mood.  Presently  she  returned  with  her  bonnet  and 
cloak  on,  saying,  '  I  am  so  sorry,  but  you  must  help 
me  to  get  it.  Mother  has  gone  to  bed.  Will  you 
wrap  yourself  up,  and  come  this  way,  and  please  bring 
that  cup  with  you  ?  ' 

Stockdale,  a  lonely  young  fellow,  who  had  for  weeks 
felt  a  great  craving  for  somebody  on  whom  to  throw 
away  superfluous  interest,  and  even  tenderness,  was 
not  sorry  to  join  her ;  and  followed  his  guide  through 
the  back  door,  across  the  garden,  to  the  bottom,  where 
the  boundary  was  a  wall.  This  wall  was  low,  and 
beyond  it  Stockdale  discerned  in  the  night  shades 
several  grey  headstones,  and  the  outlines  of  the  church 
roof  and  tower. 

224 


THE   DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

•It  is  easy  to  get  up  this  way,'  she  said,  stepping 
upon  a  bank  which  abutted  on  the  wall ;  then  putting 
her  foot  on  the  top  of  the  stonework,  and  descending 
by  a  spring  inside,  where  the  ground  was  much  higher, 
as  is  the  manner  of  graveyards  to  be.  Stockdale  did 
the  same,  and  followed  her  in  the  dusk  across  the 
irregular  ground  till  they  came  to  the  tower  door,  which, 
when  they  had  entered,  she  softly  closed  behind  them. 

*  You  can  keep  a  secret  ? '  she  said,  in  a  musical 
voice. 

<  Like  an  iron  chest ! '  said  he  fervently. 

Then  from  under  her  cloak  she  produced  a  small 
lighted  lantern,  which  the  minister  had  not  noticed 
that  she  carried  at  all.  The  light  showed  them  to  be 
close  to  the  singing-gallery  stairs,  under  which  lay  a 
heap  of  lumber  of  all  sorts,  but  consisting  mostly  of 
decayed  framework,  pews,  panels,  and  pieces  of  flooring, 
that  from  time  to  time  had  been  removed  from  their 
original  fixings  in  the  body  of  the  edifice  and  replaced 
by  new. 

'  Perhaps  you  will  drag  some  of  those  boards  aside  ? ' 
she  said,  holding  the  lantern  over  her  head  to  light 
him  better.  'Or  will  you  take  the  lantern  while  I 
move  them  ? ' 

*  I  can  manage  it,'  said  the  young  man,  and  acting 
as  she  ordered,  he  uncovered,  to  his  surprise,  a  row  of 
little  barrels  bound  with  wood  hoops,  each  barrel  being 
about  as  large  as  the  nave  of  a  heavy  waggon-wheel. 
When  they  were  laid  open  Lizzy  fixed  her  eyes  on  him, 
as  if  she  wondered  what  he  would  say. 

*  You  know  what  they  are  ? '  she  asked,  finding  that 
he  did  not  speak. 

'Yes,  barrels,'  said  Stockdale  simply.  He  was  an 
inland  man,  the  son  of  highly  respectable  parents,  and 
brought  up  with  a  single  eye  to  the  ministry ;  and  the 
sight  suggested  nothing  beyond  the  fact  that  such 
articles  were  there. 

2^5  P 


u^ 


WESSEX  TALES 

•  You  are  quite  right,  they  are  barrels,'  she  said,  in 
an  emphatic  tone  of  candour  that  was  not  without  a 
touch  of  irony. 

Stockdale  looked  at  her  with  an  eye  of  sudden  mis- 
giving.    '  Not  smugglers'  liquor  ?  '  he  said. 

'  Yes,'  said  she.  '  They  are  tubs  of  spirit  that  have 
accidentally  come  over  in  the  dark  from  France.' 

In  Nether-Moynton  and  its  vicinity  at  this  date 
people  always  smiled  at  the  sort  of  sin  called  in  the 
outside  world  illicit  trading;  and  these  little  kegs  of 
gin  and  brandy  were  as  well  known  to  the  inhabitants 
as  turnips.  So  that  Stockdale's  innocent  ignorance, 
and  his  look  of  alarm  when  he  guessed  the  sinister 
mystery,  seemed  to  strike  Lizzy  first  as  ludicrous,  and 
then  as  very  awkward  for  the  good  impression  that  she 
wished  to  produce  upon  him. 

'  Smuggling  is  carried  on  here  by  some  of  the  people,' 
she  said  in  a  gentle,  apologetic  voice.  'It  has  been 
their  practice  for  generations,  and  they  think  it  no  harm. 
Now,  will  you  roll  out  one  of  the  tubs  ? ' 

•  What  to  do  with  it  ?  '  said  the  minister. 

'To  draw  a  little  from  it  to  cure  your  cold,'  she 
answered.  'It  is  so  'nation  strong  that  it  drives  away 
that  sort  of  thing  in  a  jiffy.  O,  it  is  all  right  about 
our  taking  it.  I  may  have  what  I  like;  the  owner  of 
the  tubs  says  so.  I  ought  to  have  had  some  in  the 
house,  and  then  I  shouldn't  ha'  been  put  to  this 
trouble ;  but  I  drink  none  myself,  and  so  I  often  forget 
to  keep  it  indoors.' 

'You  are  allowed  to  help  yourself,  I  suppose,  that 
you  may  not  inform  where  their  hiding-place  is  ? ' 

'Well,  no;  not  that  particularly;  but  I  may  take  any 
if  I  want  it.     So  help  yourself.' 

'  I  will,  to  oblige  you,  since  you  have  a  right  to  it,' 
murmured  the  minister;  and  though  he  was  not  quite 
satisfied  with  his  part  in  the  performance,  he  rolled  one 
of  the  *  tubs '  out  from  the  corner  into  the  middle  of  the 

226 


THE   DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

tower  floor.     '  How  do  you  wish  me  to  get  it  out — with 
a  gimlet,  I  suppose  ? ' 

'  No,  I'll  show  you,'  said  his  interesting  companion ; 
and  she  held  up  with  her  other  hand  a  shoemaker's  awl 
and  a  hammer.  '  You  must  never  do  these  things  with 
a  gimlet,  because  the  wood-dust  gets  in ;  and  when  the 
buyers  pour  out  the  brandy  that  would  tell  them  that 
the  tub  had  been  broached.  An  awl  makes  no  dust, 
and  the  hole  nearly  closes  up  again.  Now  tap  one  of 
the  hoops  forward.' 

Stockdale  took  the  hammer  and  did  so. 

« Now  make  the  hole  in  the  part  that  was  covered  by 
the  hoop.' 

He  made  the  hole  as  directed.  *  It  won't  run  out,' 
he  said. 

•O  yes  it  will,'  said  she.  'Take  the  tub  between 
your  knees,  and  squeeze  the  heads ;  and  I'll  hold  the 
cup.' 

Stockdale  obeyed;  and  the  pressure  taking  effect 
upon  the  tub,  which  seemed  to  be  thin,  the  spirit 
spirted  out  in  a  stream.  When  the  cup  was  full  he 
ceased  pressing,  and  the  flow  immediately  stopped. 
'  Now  we  must  fill  up  the  keg  with  water,'  said  Lizzy, 
'  or  it  will  cluck  like  forty  hens  when  it  is  handled,  and 
show  that  'tis  not  full' 

♦  But  they  tell  you  you  may  take  it  ? ' 

'Yes,  the  smugglers ;  but  the  buyers  must  not  know 
that  the  smugglers  have  been  kind  to  me  at  their 
expense.' 

'  I  see,'  said  Stockdale  doubtfully.  *  I  much  question 
the  honesty  of  this  proceeding.' 

By  her  direction  he  held  the  tub  with  the  hole 
upwards,  and  while  he  went  through  the  process  of 
alternately  pressing  and  ceasing  to  press,  she  produced 
a  bottle  of  water,  from  which  she  took  mouthfuls,  con- 
veying each  to  the  keg  by  putting  her  pretty  lips  to  the 
hole,  where  it  was  sucked  in  at  each  recovery  of  the 

227 


WESSEX   TALES 

cask  from  pressure.  WTien  it  was  again  full  he  plugged 
the  hole,  knocked  the  hoop  down  to  its  place,  and 
buried  the  tub  in  the  lumber  as  before. 

'  Aren't  the  smugglers  afraid  that  you  will  tell  ? '  he 
asked,  as  they  recrossed  the  churchyard. 

'  O  no ;  they  are  not  afraid  of  that.  I  couldn't  do 
such  a  thing.' 

'They  have  put  you  into  a  very  awkward  corner,' 
said  Stockdale  emphatically.  '  You  must,  of  course,  as 
an  honest  person,  sometimes  feel  that  it  is  your  duty 
to  inform — really  you  must.' 

'  Well,  I  have   never  particularly  felt  it  as  a  duty ; 

and,  besides,  my  first  husband '     She  stopped,  and 

there  was  some  confusion  in  her  voice.  Stockdale  was 
so  honest  and  unsophisticated  that  he  did  not  at  once 
discern  why  she  paused  :  but  at  last  he  did  perceive 
that  the  words  were  a  slip,  and  that  no  woman  would 
have  uttered  *  first  husband '  by  accident  unless  she 
had  thought  pretty  frequently  of  a  second.  He  felt 
for  her  confusion,  and  allowed  her  time  to  recover  and 
proceed.  *  My  husband,'  she  said,  in  a  self-corrected 
tone,  'used  to  know  of  their  doings,  and  so  did  my 
father,  and  kept  the  secret.  I  cannot  inform,  in  fact, 
against  anybody.' 

'  I  see  the  hardness  of  it,'  he  continued,  like  a  man 
who  looked  far  into  the  moral  of  things.  '  And  it  is 
very  cruel  that  you  should  be  tossed  and  tantalized 
between  your  memories  and  your  conscience.  I  do 
hope,  Mrs.  Newberry,  that  you  will  soon  see  your  way 
out  of  this  unpleasant  position.' 

'  Well,  I  don't  just  now,'  she  murmured. 

By  this  time  they  had  passed  over  the  wall  and 
entered  the  house,  where  she  brought  him  a  glass  and 
hot  water,  and  left  him  to  his  own  reflections.  He 
looked  after  her  vanishing  form,  asking  himself  whether 
he,  as  a  respectable  man,  and  a  minister,  and  a  shining 
light,  even  though  as  yet  only  of  the  halfpenny-candle 

228 


THE  DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

sort,  were  quite  justified  in  doing  this  thing.  A  sneeze 
settled  the  question;  and  he  found  that  when  the  fiery 
Uquor  was  lowered  by  the  addition  of  twice  or  thrice 
the  quantity  of  water,  it  was  one  of  the  prettiest  cures 
for  a  cold  in  the  head  that  he  had  ever  known,  parti- 
cularly at  this  chilly  time  of  the  year. 

Stockdale  sat  in  the  deep  chair  about  twenty  minutes 
sipping  and  meditating,  till  he  at  length  took  warmer 
views  of  things,  and  longed  for  the  morrow,  when  he 
would  see  Mrs.  Newberry  again.  He  then  felt  that, 
though  chronologically  at  a  short  distance,  it  would  in 
an  emotional  sense  be  very  long  before  to-morrow 
came,  and  walked  restlessly  round  the  room.  His  eye 
was  attracted  by  a  framed  and  glazed  sampler  in  which 
a  running  ornament  of  fir-trees  and  peacocks  surrounded 
the  following  pretty  bit  of  sentiment : — 

'  Rose-leaves  smell  when  roses  thrive, 
Here's  ray  work  while  I'm  alive  ; 
Rose-leaves  smell  when  shrunk  and  shed. 
Here's  tny  work  when  I  am  dead. 

*  Lizzy  Simpkins.     Fear  God.     Honour  the  King. 
'Aged  II  years,' 

*  'Tis  hers,'  he  said  to  himself.  *  Heavens,  how  I 
like  that  name ! ' 

Before  he  had  done  thinking  that  no  other  name 
from  Abigail  to  Zenobia  would  have  suited  his  young 
landlady  so  well,  tap-tap  came  again  upon  the  door; 
and  the  minister  started  as  her  face  appeared  yet 
another  time,  looking  so  disinterested  that  the  most 
ingenious  would  have  refrained  from  asserting  that  she 
had  come  to  affect  his  feelings  by  her  seductive  eyes. 

'  Would  you  like  a  fire  in  your  room,  Mr.  Stockdale, 
on  account  of  your  cold  ? ' 

The  minister,  being  still  a  little  pricked  in  the  con- 
science for  countenancing  her  in  watering  the  spirits, 

229 


WESSEX  TALES 

saw  here  a  way  to  self-chastisement.  •  No,  I  thank  you,' 
he  said  firmly ;  '  it  is  not  necessary.  I  have  never  been 
used  to  one  in  my  life,  and  it  would  be  giving  way  to 
luxury  too  far.' 

'Then  I  won't  insist,'  she  said,  and  disconcerted 
him  by  vanishing  instantly. 

Wondering  if  she  was  vexed  by  his  refusal,  he  wished 
that  he  had  chosen  to  have  a  fire,  even  though  it  should 
have  scorched  him  out  of  bed  and  endangered  his  self- 
discipline  for  a  dozen  days.  However,  he  consoled 
himself  with  what  was  in  truth  a  rare  consolation  for 
a  budding  lover,  that  he  was  under  the  same  roof  with 
Lizzy ;  her  guest,  in  fact,  to  take  a  poetical  view  of  the 
term  lodger;  and  that  he  would  certainly  see  her  on 
the  morrow. 

The  morrow  came,  and  Stockdale  rose  early,  his  cold 
quite  gone.  He  had  never  in  his  life  so  longed  for  the 
breakfast  hour  as  he  did  that  day,  and  punctually  at 
eight  o'clock,  after  a  short  walk,  to  reconnoitre  the 
premises,  he  re-entered  the  door  of  his  dwelling.  Break- 
fast passed,  and  Martha  Sarah  attended,  but  nobody 
came  voluntarily  as  on  the  night  before  to  inquire  if 
there  were  other  wants  which  he  had  not  mentioned, 
and  which  she  would  attempt  to  gratify.  He  was  dis- 
appointed, and  went  out,  hoping  to  see  her  at  dinner. 
Dinner  time  came ;  he  sat  down  to  the  meal,  finished 
it,  lingered  on  for  a  whole  hour,  although  two  new 
teachers  were  at  that  moment  waiting  at  the  chapel-door 
to  speak  to  him  by  appointment.  It  was  useless  to 
wait  longer,  and  he  slowly  went  his  way  down  ihe  lane, 
cheered  by  the  thought  that,  after  all,  he  would  see  her 
in  the  evening,  and  perhaps  engage  again  in  the  de- 
lightful tub-broaching  in  the  neighbouring  church  tower, 
which  proceeding  he  resolved  to  render  more  moral  by 
steadfastly  insisting  that  no  water  should  be  introduced 
to  fill  up,  though  the  tub  should  cluck  like  all  the  hens 
in  Christendom.     But  nothing  could  disgxiise  the  fact 

230 


THE   DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

that  it  was  a  queer  business ;  and  his  countenance  fell 
when  he  thought  how  much  more  his  mind  was  interested 
in  that  matter  than  in  his  serious  duties. 

However,  compunction  vanished  with  the  decline 
of  day.  Night  came,  and  his  tea  and  supper ;  but  no 
Lizzy  Newberry,  and  no  sweet  temptations.  At  last 
the  minister  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  said  to  his 
quaint  little  attendant,  'Where  is  Mrs.  Newberry  to- 
day ? '  judiciously  handing  a  penny  as  he  spoke. 

•  She's  busy,'  said  Martha. 

« Anything  serious  happened  ? '  he  asked,  handing 
another  penny,  and  revealing  yet  additional  pennies  in 
the  background. 

'  O  no — nothing  at  all ! '  said  she,  with  breathless 
confidence.  '  Nothing  ever  happens  to  her.  She's 
only  biding  upstairs  in  bed  because  'tis  her  way  some- 
times.' 

Being  a  young  man  of  some  honour,  he  would  not 
question  further,  and  assuming  that  Lizzy  must  have  a 
bad  headache,  or  other  slight  ailment,  in  spite  of  what 
the  girl  had  said,  he  went  to  bed  dissatisfied,  not  even 
setting  eyes  on  old  Mrs.  Simpkins.  '  I  said  last  night 
that  I  should  see  her  to-morrow,'  he  reflected;  'but 
that  was  not  to  be ! ' 

Next  day  he  had  better  fortune,  or  worse,  meeting 
her  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  in  the  morning,  and  being 
favoured  by  a  visit  or  two  from  her  during  the  day — 
once  for  the  purpose  of  making  kindly  inquiries  about 
his  comfort,  as  on  the  first  evening,  and  at  another  time 
to  place  a  bunch  of  winter-violtts  on  his  table,  with  a 
promise  to  renew  them  when  they  drooped.  On  these 
occasions  there  was  something  in  her  smile  which  showed 
how  conscious  she  was  of  the  effect  she  produced,  though 
it  must  be  said  that  it  was  rather  a  humorous  than  a 
designing  consciousness,  and  savoured  more  of  pride 
than  of  vanity. 

As  for  Stock  dale,  he  clearly  perceived  that  he  pos- 

0  231 


WES'SEX  TALES 

sessed  unlimited  capacity  for  backsliding,  and  wished 
that  tutelary  saints  were  not  denied  to  Dissenters.  He 
set  a  watch  upon  his  tongue  and  eyes  for  the  space  of 
one  hour  and  a  half,  after  which  he  found  it  was  useless 
to  struggle  further,  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  situation. 
'  The  other  minister  will  be  here  in  a  month,'  he  said  to 
himself  when  sitting  over  the  fire.  *  Then  I  shall  be  off, 
and  she  will  distract  my  mind  no  more  1  .  .  .  And  then, 
shall  I  go  on  living  by  myself  for  ever  ?  No ;  when  my 
two  years  of  probation  are  finished,  I  shall  have  a 
furnished  house  to  live  in,  with  a  varnished  door  and 
a  brass  knocker;  and  I'll  march  straight  back  to  her, 
and  ask  her  flat,  as  soon  as  the  last  plate  is  on  the 
dresser ! * 

Thus  a  titillating  fortnight  was  passed  by  young 
Stockdale,  during  which  time  things  proceeded  much 
as  such  matters  have  done  ever  since  the  beginning  of 
history.  He  saw  the  object  of  attachment  several  times 
one  day,  did  not  see  her  at  all  the  next,  met  her  when 
he  least  expected  to  do  so,  missed  her  when  hints  and 
signs  as  to  where  she  should  be  at  a  given  hour  almost 
amounted  to  an  appointment.  This  mild  coquetry  was 
perhaps  fair  enough  under  the  circumstances  of  their 
being  so  closely  lodged,  and  Stockdale  put  up  with  it  as 
philosophically  as  he  was  able.  Being  in  her  own  house, 
she  could,  after  vexing  him  or  disappointing  him  of 
her  presence,  easily  win  him  back  by  suddenly  surround- 
ing him  with  those  little  attentions  which  her  position 
as  his  landlady  put  it  in  her  power  to  bestow.  When 
he  had  waited  indoors  half  the  day  to  see  her,  and  on 
finding  that  she  would  not  be  seen,  had  gone  off  in  a 
huff  to  the  dreariest  and  dampest  walk  he  could  discover, 
she  would  restore  equilibrium  in  the  evening  with  '  Mr. 
Stockdale,  I  have  fancied  you  must  feel  draught  o'  nights 
from  your  bedroom  window,  and  so  I  have  been  putting 
up  thicker  curtains  this  afternoon  while  you  were  out ; ' 
or, '  I  noticed  that  you  sneezed  twice  again  this  morning, 

233 


THE  DISTRACTED  PREACHER 

Mr.  Stockdale.  Depend  upon  it  that  cold  is  hanging 
about  you  yet;  I  am  sure  it  is — I  have  thought  of  it 
continually;  and  you  must  let  me  make  a  posset  for 
you.' 

Sometimes  in  coming  home  he  found  his  sitting-room 
rearranged,  chairs  placed  where  the  table  had  stood,  and 
the  table  ornamented  with  the  few  fresh  flowers  and 
leaves  that  could  be  obtained  at  this  season,  so  as  to 
add  a  novelty  to  the  room.  At  times  she  would  be 
standing  on  a  chair  outside  the  house,  trying  to  nail  up 
a  branch  of  the  monthly  rose  which  the  winter  wind  had 
blown  down ;  and  of  course  he  stepped  forward  to  assist 
her,  when  their  hands  got  mixed  in  passing  the  shreds 
and  nails.  Thus  they  became  friends  again  after  a  dis- 
agreement. She  would  utter  on  these  occasions  some 
pretty  and  deprecatory  remark  on  the  necessity  of  her 
troubling  him  anew ;  and  he  would  straightway  say  that 
he  would  do  a  hundred  times  as  much  for  her  if  she 
should  so  require. 


BOW  HE  SAW  TWO  OTHER  MEf) 


II 


JVlATTERS  being  in  this  advancing  state,  Stockdale 
was  nither  surprised  one  cloudy  evening,  while  sitting 
in  his  room,  at  hearing  her  speak  in  low  tones  of  ex- 
postulation to  some  one  at  the  door.  It  was  nearly 
dark,  but  the  shutters  were  not  yet  closed,  nor  the 
candles  lighted ;  and  Stockdale  was  tempted  to  stretch 
his  head  towards  the  window.  He  saw  outside  the 
door  a  young  man  in  clothes  of  a  whitish  colour,  and 
upon  reflection  judged  their  wearer  to  be  the  well- 
built  and  rather  handsome  miller  who  lived  below. 
The  miller's  voice  was  alternately  low  and  firm,  and 
sometimes  it  reached  the  level  of  positive  entreaty ;  but 
what  the  words  were  Stockdale  could  in  no  way  hear. 

Before  the  colloquy  had  ended,  the  minister's  atten- 
tion was  attracted  by  a  second  incident.  Opposite 
Lizzy's  home  grew  a  clump  of  laurels,  forming  a  thick 
and  permanent  shade.  One  of  the  laurel  boughs  now 
quivered  against  the  light  background  of  sky,  and  in  a 
moment  the  head  of  a  man  peered  out,  and  remained 
still.  He  seemed  to  be  also  much  interested  in  the 
conversation  at  the  door,  and  was  plainly  lingering 
there  to  watch  and  listen.     Had   Stockdale  stood  in 

234 


THE   DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

any  other  relation  to  Lizzy  than  that  of  a  lover,  he 
might  have  gone  out  and  investigated  the  meaning  of 
this :  but  being  as  yet  but  an  unprivileged  ally,  he  did 
nothing  more  than  stand  up  and  show  himself  against 
the  firelight,  whereupon  the  Ustener  disappeared,  and 
Lizzy  and  the  miller  spoke  in  lower  tones. 

Stockdale  was  made  so  uneasy  by  the  circumstance, 
that  as  soon  as  the  miller  was  gone,  he  said,  'Mrs. 
Newberry,  are  you  aware  that  you  were  watched  just 
now,  and  your  conversation  heard  ? ' 

*  When  ?  '  she  said. 

'When  you  were  talking  to  that  miller.  A  man 
was  looking  from  the  laurel-tree  as  jealously  as  if  he 
could  have  eaten  you.' 

She  showed  more  concern  than  the  trifling  event 
seemed  to  demand,  and  he  added,  '  Perhaps  you  were 
talking  of  things  you  did  not  wish  to  be  overheard  ? ' 

♦  I  was  talking  only  on  business,'  she  said. 

'  Lizzy,  be  frank  ! '  said  the  young  man.  '  If  it  was 
only  on  business,  why  should  anybody  wish  to  Usten 
to  you?* 

She  looked  curiously  at  him.  'What  else  do  you 
think  it  could  be,  then  ?  ' 

<  Well — the  only  talk  between  a  young  woman  and 
man  that  is  likely  to  amuse  an  eavesdropper.' 

*Ah  yes,'  she  said,  smiling  in  spite  of  her  pre- 
occupation. 'Well,  my  cousin  Owlett  has  spoken  to 
me  about  matrimony,  every  now  and  then,  that's  true ; 
but  he  was  not  speaking  of  it  then.  I  wish  he  had 
been  speaking  of  it,  with  all  my  heart.  It  would  have 
been  much  less  serious  for  me.' 

'  O  Mrs.  Newberry ! ' 

♦It  would.  Not  that  I  should  ha'  chimed  in  with 
him,  of  course.  I  wish  it  for  other  reasons.  I  am 
glad,  Mr.  Stockdale,  that  you  have  told  me  of  that 
listener.  It  is  a  timely  warning,  and  I  must  see  my 
cousin  again.' 

235 


WESSEX  TALES 

•But  don't  go  away  till  I  have  spoken,'  said  the 
minister.  *  I'll  out  with  it  at  once,  and  make  no  more 
ado.  Let  it  be  Yes  or  No  between  us,  Lizzy  ;  please 
do !  *  And  he  held  out  his  hand,  in  which  she  freely 
allowed  her  own  to  rest,  but  without  speaking. 

'  You  mean  Yes  by  that  ? '  he  asked,  after  waiting  a 
while. 

'  You  may  be  my  sweetheart,  if  you  will.' 

'  Why  not  say  at  once  you  will  wait  for  me  until  I 
have  a  house  and  can  come  back  to  marry  you.' 

'  Because  I  am  thinking  —  thinking  of  something 
else,'  she  said  with  embarrassment,  '  It  all  comes  upon 
me  at  once,  and  I  must  settle  one  thing  at  a  time.' 

'  At  any  rate,  dear  Lizzy,  you  can  assure  me  that 
the  miliar  shall  not  be  allowed  to  speak  to  you  except 
on  business  ?  You  have  never  directly  encouraged 
him  ? ' 

She  parried  the  question  by  saying,  •  You  see,  he  and 
his  party  have  been  in  the  habit  of  leaving  things  on  my 
premises  sometimes,  and  as  I  have  not  denied  him,  it 
makes  him  rather  forward.' 

'  Things — what  things  ?  ' 

'  Tubs — they  are  called  Things  here.' 

'  But  why  don't  you  deny  him,  my  dear  Lizzy  ? ' 

'  I  cannot  well.' 

'  You  are  too  timid.  It  is  unfair'  of  him  to  impose 
so  upon  you,  and  get  your  good  name  into  danger  by 
his  smuggling  tricks.  Promise  me  that  the  next  time 
he  wants  to  leave  his  tubs  here  you  will  let  me  roll  tb  .m 
into  the  street  ? ' 

She  shook  her  head.  '  I  would  not  venture  to  offend 
the  neighbours  so  much  as  that,'  said  she,  *or  do  any- 
thing that  would  be  so  likely  to  put  poor  Owlett  into 
the  hands  of  the  excisemen.' 

Stockdale  sighed,  and  said  that  he  thought  hers  a 
mistaken  generosity  when  it  extended  to  assisting  those 
who  cheated  the  king  of  his  dues.     *  At  any  rate,  you 

236 


THE   DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

will  let  me  make  him  keep  his  distance  as  your  lover, 
and  tell  him  flatly  that  you  are  not  for  him  ? ' 

'  Please  not,  at  present,'  she  said.  *  I  don't  wish  to 
offend  my  old  neighbours.  It  is  not  only  Owlett  who 
is  concerned.' 

'  This  is  too  bad,'  said  Stockdale  impatiently. 

'  On  my  honour,  I  won't  encourage  him  as  my 
lover,'  Lizzy  answered  earnestly.  *  A  reasonable  man 
will  be  satisfied  with  that.' 

'Well,  so  I  am,'  said  Stockdale,  his  countenance 
clearing. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  GREATCOAT 


III 


Stock  DALE  now  began  to  notice  more  particularly 
a  feature  in  the  life  of  his  fair  landlady,  which  he  had 
casually  observed  but  scarcely  ever  thought  of  before. 
It  was  that  she  was  markedly  irregular  in  her  hours 
of  rising.  For  a  week  or  two  she  would  be  tolerably 
punctual,  reaching  the  ground-floor  within  a  few  minutes 
of  half-past  seven.  Then  suddenly  she  would  not  be 
visible  till  twelve  at  noon,  perhaps  for  three  or  four  days 
in  succession ;  and  twice  he  had  certain  proof  that  she 
did  not  leave  her  room  till  half-past  three  in  the  after- 
noon. The  second  time  that  this  extreme  lateness 
came  under  his  notice  was  on  a  day  when  he  had 
particularly  wished  to  consult  with  her  about  his  future 
movements ;  and  he  concluded,  as  he  always  had  done, 
that  she  had  a  cold,  headache,  or  other  ailment,  unless 
she  had  kept  herself  invisible  to  avoid  meeting  and 
talking  to  him,  which  he  could  hardly  believe.  The 
former  supposition  was  disproved,  however,  by  her 
innocently  saying,  some  days  later,  when  they  were 
speaking  on  a  question  of  health,  that  she  had  never 
had  a  moment's  heaviness,  headache,  or  illness  of  any 
kind  since  the  previous  January  twelvemonth. 

2^8 


THE  DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

•I  am  glad  to  hear  it,'  said  he.  'I  thought  quite 
otherwise.' 

'  What,  do  I  look  sickly  ? '  she  asked,  turning  up 
her  face  to  show  the  impossibility  of  his  gazing  on  it 
and  holding  such  a  belief  for  a  moment. 

'  Not  at  all ;  I  merely  thought  so  from  your  being 
sometimes  obhged  to  keep  your  room  through  the  best 
part  of  the  day.' 

'O,  as  for  that — it  means  nothing,'  she  murmured, 
with  a  look  which  some  might  have  called  cold,  and 
which  was  the  worst  look  that  he  liked  to  see  upon  her. 
'  It  is  pure  sleepiness,  Mr.  Stockdale.' 

'  Never ! ' 

*  It  is,  I  tell  you.  When  I  stay  in  my  room  till  half- 
pnst  three  in  the  afternoon,  you  may  always  be  sure 
that  I  slept  soundly  till  three,  or  I  shouldn't  have 
stayed  there.' 

'  It  is  dreadful,'  said  Stockdale,  thinking  of  the 
disastrous  effects  of  such  indulgence  upon  the  house- 
hold of  a  minister,  should  it  become  a  habit  of  everyday 
occurrence. 

'  But  then,'  she  said,  divining  his  good  and  prescient 
thoughts,  '  it  only  happens  when  I  stay  awake  all  night. 
I  don't  go  to  sleep  till  five  or  six  in  the  morning 
sometimes.' 

'  Ah,  that's  another  matter,'  said  Stockdale.  '  Sleep- 
lessness to  such  an  alarming  extent  is  real  illness. 
Have  you  spoken  to  a  doctor  ?  ' 

'  O  no — there  is  no  need  for  doing  that — it  is  all 
natural  to  me.'  And  she  went  away  without  further 
remark. 

Stockdale  might  have  waited  a  long  time  to  know 
the  real  cause  of  her  sleeplessness,  had  it  not  happened 
that  one  dark  night  he  was  sitting  in  his  bedroom 
jotting  down  notes  for  a  sermon,  which  occupied  him 
perfunctorily  for  a  considerable  time  after  the  other 
members  of  the  household   had  retired.     He  did   not 

239 


WESSEX  TALES 

get  to  bed  till  one  o'clock.  Before  he  had  fallen  asleep 
he  heard  a  knocking  at  the  front  door,  first  rather  timidly 
performed,  and  then  louder.  Nobody  answered  it,  and 
the  person  knocked  again.  As  the  house  still  remained 
undisturbed,  Stockdale  got  out  of  bed,  went  to  his 
window,  which  overlooked  the  door,  and  opening  it, 
asked  who  was  there. 

A  young  woman's  voice  replied  that  Susan  WaUis 
was  there,  and  that  she  had  come  to  ask  if  Mrs. 
Newberry  could  give  her  some  mustard  to  make  a 
plaster  with,  as  her  father  was  taken  very  ill  on  the 
chest. 

The  minister,  having  neither  bell  nor  servant,  was 
compelled  to  act  in  person.  *  I  will  call  Mrs.  New- 
berry,' he  said.  Partly  dressing  himself,  he  went  along 
the  passage  and  tapped  at  Lizzy's  door.  She  did  not 
answer,  and,  thinking  of  her  erratic  habits  in  the  matter 
of  sleep,  he  thumped  the  door  persistently,  when  he 
discovered,  by  its  moving  ajar  under  his  knocking,  that 
it  had  only  been  gently  pushed  to.  As  there  was  now 
a  sufificient  entry  for  the  voice,  he  knocked  no  longer, 
but  said  in  firm  tones,  '  Mrs.  Newberry,  you  are 
wanted.' 

The  room  was  quite  silent;  not  a  breathing,  not  a 
rustle,  came  from  any  part  of  it.  Stockdale  now  sent 
a  positive  shout  through  the  open  space  of  the  door : 
'  Mrs.  Newberry ! ' — still  no  answer,  or  movement  of  any 
kind  within.  Then  he  heard  sounds  from  the  opposite 
room,  that  of  Lizzy's  mother,  as  if  she  had  been  aroused 
by  his  uproar  though  Lizzy  had  not,  and  was  dressing 
herself  hastily.  Stockdale  softly  closed  the  younger 
woman's  door  and  went  on  to  the  other,  which  was 
opened  by  Mrs.  Simpkins  before  he  could  reach  it. 
She  was  in  her  ordinary  clothes,  and  had  a  light  in 
her  hand. 

'  What's  the  person  calling  about  ? '  she  said  in 
alarm. 

240 


THE  DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

Stockdale  told  the  girl's  errand,  adding  seriously,  *  I 
cannot  wake  Mrs.  Newberry.' 

'  It  is  no  matter,'  said  her  mother.  '  I  can  let  the 
girl  have  what  she  wants  as  well  as  my  daughter.'  And 
she  came  out  of  the  room  and  went  downstairs, 

Stockdale  retired  towards  his  own  apartment,  saying, 
however,  to  Mrs.  Simpkins  from  the  landing,  as  if  on 
second  thoughts,  *  I  suppose  there  is  nothing  the  matter 
with  Mrs.  Newberry,  that  I  could  not  wake  her  ? ' 

'  O  no,'  said  the  old  lady  hastily.     'Nothing  at  all.' 

Still  the  minister  was  not  satisfied.  'Will  you  go 
in  and  see  ? '  he  said.  '  I  should  be  much  more  at 
ease.' 

Mrs.  Simpkins  returned  up  the  staircase,  went  to  her 
daughter's  room,  and  came  out  again  almost  instantly. 
'  There  is  nothing  at  all  the  matter  with  Lizzy,'  she 
said;  and  descended  again  to  attend  to  the  applicant, 
who,  having  seen  the  light,  had  remained  quiet  during 
this  interval. 

Stockdale  went  into  his  room  and  lay  down  as  before. 
He  heard  Lizzy's  mother  open  the  front  door,  admit 
the  girl,  and  then  the  murmured  discourse  of  both  as 
they  went  to  the  store-cupboard  for  the  medicament 
required.  The  girl  departed,  the  door  was  fastened, 
Mrs.  Simpkins  came  upstairs,  and  the  house  was  again 
in  silence.  Still  the  minister  did  not  fall  asleep.  He 
could  not  get  rid  of  a  singular  suspicion,  which  was  all 
the  more  harrassing  in  being,  if  true,  the  most  unac- 
countable thing  within  his  experience.  That  Lizzy 
Newberry  was  in  her  bedroom  when  he  made  such  a 
clamour  at  the  door  he  could  not  possibly  convince 
himself,  notwithstanding  that  he  had  heard  her  come 
upstairs  at  the  usual  time,  go  into  her  chamber,  and 
shut  herself  up  in  the  usual  way.  Yet  all  reason  was 
so  much  against  her  being  elsewhere,  that  he  was  con- 
strained to  go  back  ag:an  to  the  unlikely  theory  of  a 
heavy  sleep,  though  he  had  heard  neither  breath  nor 

241  q 


WESSEX  TALES 

movement  during  a  shouting  and  knocking  loud  enough 
to  rouse  the  Seven  Sleepers. 

Before  coming  to  any  positive  conclusion  he  fell 
asleep  himself,  and  did  not  awake  till  day.  He  saw 
nothing  of  Mrs.  Newberry  in  the  morning,  before  he 
went  out  to  meet  the  rising  sun,  as  he  liked  to  do  when 
the  weather  was  fine;  but  as  this  was  by  no  means 
unusual,  he  took  no  notice  of  it.  At  breakfast-lime  he 
knew  that  she  was  not  far  off  by  hearing  her  in  the 
kitchen,  and  though  he  saw  nothing  of  her  person,  that 
back  apartment  being  rigorously  closed  against  his  eyes, 
she  seemed  to  be  talking,  ordering,  and  bustling  about 
among  the  pots  and  skimmers  in  so  ordinary  a  manner, 
that  there  was  no  reason  for  his  wasting  more  time  in 
fruitless  surmise. 

The  minister  suffered  from  these  distractions,  and 
his  extemporized  sermons  were  not  improved  thereby. 
Already  he  often  said  Romans  for  Corinthians  in  the 
pulpit,  and  gave  out  hymns  in  strange  cramped  metres, 
that  hitherto  had  always  been  skipped,  because  the  con- 
gregation could  not  raise  a  tune  to  fit  them.  He  fully 
resolved  that  as  soon  as  his  few  .weeks  of  stay  approached 
their  end  he  would  cut  the  matter  short,  and  commit 
himself  by  proposing  a  definite  engagement,  repenting  at 
leisure  if  necessary. 

With  this  end  in  view,  he  suggested  to  her  on  the 
evening  after  her  mysterious  sleep  that  they  should  take 
a  walk  together  just  before  dark,  the  latter  part  of  the 
proposition  being  introduced  that  they  might  return 
home  unseen.  She  consented  to  go;  and  away  they 
went  over  a  stile,  to  a  shrouded  footpath  suited  for  the 
occasion.  But,  in  spite  of  attempts  on  both  sides,  they 
were  unable  to  infuse  much  spirit  into  the  ramble.  She 
looked  rather  paler  than  usual,  and  sometimes  turned 
her  head  away. 

'  Lizzy,'  said  Stockdale  reproachfully,  when  they  had 
walked  in  silence  a  long  distance. 

242 


THE   DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

*Yes,'  said  she.  / 

'You  yawned — much  my  company  is  to  yoi/l '  He 
put  it  in  that  way,  but  he  was  really  wondering  whethei 
her  yawn  could  possibly  have  more  to  do  with  physical 
weariness  from  the  night  before  than  mental  weariness 
of  that  present  moment.  Lizzy  apologized,  and  owned 
that  she  was  rather  tired,  which  gave  him  an  opening 
for  a  direct  question  on  the  point;  but  his  modesty 
would  not  allow  him  to  put  it  to  her ;  and  he  uncom- 
fortably resolved  to  wait. 

The  month  of  February  passed  with  alternations  of 
nmd  and  frost,  rain  and  sleet,  east  winds  and  north- 
westerly gales.  The  hollow  places  in  the  ploughed 
fields  showed  themselves  as  pools  of  water,  which  had 
settled  there  from  the  higher  levels,  and  had  not  yet 
found  time  to  soak  away.  The  birds  began  to  get 
lively,  and  a  single  thrush  came  just  before  sunset  each 
evening,  and  sang  hopefully  on  the  large  elm-tree  which 
stood  nearest  to  Mrs.  Newberry's  house.  Cold  blasts 
and  brittle  earth  had  given  place  to  an  oozing  dampness 
more  unpleasant  in  itself  than  frost;  but  it  suggested 
coming  spring,  and  its  unpleasantness  was  of  a  bearable 
kind. 

Stockdale  had  been  going  to  bring  about  a  practical 
understanding  with  Lizzy  at  least  half-a-dozen  times ; 
but,  what  with  the  mystery  of  her  apparent  absence 
on  the  night  of  the  neighbour's  call,  and  her  curious 
way  of  lying  in  bed  at  unaccountable  times,  he  felt  a 
check  within  him  whenever  he  wanted  to  speak  out. 
Thus  they  still  lived  on  as  indefinitely  affianced  lovers, 
each  of  whom  hardly  acknowledged  the  other's  claim 
to  the  name  of  chosen  one.  Stockdale  persuaucd  him- 
self that  his  hesitation  was  owing  to  the  postponement 
of  the  ordained  minister's  arrival,  and  the  consequent 
delay  in  his  own  departure,  which  did  away  with  all 
necessity  for  haste  in  his  courtship ;  but  perhaps  it 
was  only  that  his  discretion  was  reasserting  itself,  and 

843 


WESSEX  TALES 

telling  him  that  he  had  better  get  clearer  ideas  of  Lizzy 
before  arranging  for  the  grand  contract  of  his  life  with 
her.  She,  on  her  part,  always  seemed  ready  to  be 
urged  further  on  that  question  than  he  had  hitherto 
attempted  to  go;  but  she  was  none  the  less  inde- 
pendent, and  to  a  degree  which  would  have  kept  from 
flagging  the  passion  of  a  far  more  mutable  man. 

On  the  evening  of  the  first  of  March  he  went 
casually  into  his  bedroom  about  dusk,  and  noticed 
lying  on  a  chair  a  greatcoat,  hat,  and  breeches.  Having 
no  recollection  of  leaving  any  clothes  of  his  own  in 
that  spot,  he  went  and  examined  them  as  well  as  he 
could  in  the  twilight,  and  found  that  they  did  not 
belong  to  him.  He  paused  for  a  moment  to  consider 
how  they  might  have  got  there.  He  was  the  only  man 
living  in  the  house ;  and  yet  these  were  not  his  garments, 
unless  he  had  made  a  mistake.  No,  they  were  not  his. 
He  called  up  Martha  Sarah. 

'  How  did  these  things  come  in  ray  room  ? '  he  said, 
flinging  the  objectionable  articles  to  the  floor. 

Martha  said  that  Mrs.  Newberry  had  given  them  to 
her  to  brush,  and  that  she  had  brought  them  up  there 
thinking  they  must  be  Mr.  Stockdale's,  as  there  was  no 
other  gentleman  a-lodging  there. 

'  Of  course  you  did,'  said  Stockdale.  '  Now  take 
them  down  to  your  mis'ess,  and  say  they  are  some 
clothes  I  have  found  here  and  know  nothing  about.' 

As  the  door  was  left  open  he  heard  the  conversation 
downstairs.  '  How  stupid  ! '  said  Mrs.  Newberry,  in  a 
tone  of  confusion.  '  Why,  Marther  Sarer,  I  did  not  tell 
you  to  take  'em  to  Mr.  Stockdale's  room  ? ' 

'  I  thought  they  must  be  his  as  they  was  so  muddy,* 
said  Martha  humbly. 

'You  should  have  left  'em  on  the  clothes-horse,' 
said  the  young  mistress  severely;  and  she  came  up- 
stairs with  the  garments  on  her  arm,  quickly  passed 
Stockdale's  room,  and  threw  them  forcibly  into  a  closet 

244 


THE   DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

at  the  end  of  a  passage.     With  this  the  incident  ended, 
and  the  house  was  silent  again. 

There  would  have  been  nothing  remarkable  in  find- 
ing such  clothes  in  a  widow's  house  had  they  been 
clean ;  or  moth-eaten,  or  creased,  or  mouldy  from  long 
lying  by ;  but  that  they  should  be  splashed  with  recent 
mud  bothered  Stockdale  a  good  deal.  When  a  young 
pastor  is  in  the  aspen  stage  of  attachment,  and  open 
to  agitation  at  the  merest  trifles,  a  really  substantial 
incongruity  of  this  complexion  is  a  disturbing  thing. 
However,  nothing  further  occurred  at  that  time;  but 
he  became  watchful,  and  given  to  conjecture,  and  was 
unable  to  forget  the  circumstance. 

One  morning,  on  looking  from  his  window,  he  saw 
Mrs.  Newberry  herself  brushing  the  tails  of  a  long 
drab  greatcoat,  which,  if  he  mistook  not,  was  the  very 
same  garment  as  the  one  that  had  adorned  the  chair 
of  his  room.  It  was  densely  splashed  up  to  the  hollow 
of  the  back  with  neighbouring  Nether-Moynton  mud,  to 
judge  by  its  colour,  the  spots  being  distinctly  visible  to 
him  in  the  sunlight.  The  previous  day  or  two  having 
been  wet,  the  inference  was  irresistible  that  the  wearer 
had  quite  recently  been  walking  some  considerable  dis- 
tance about  the  lanes  and  fields.  Stockdale  opened 
the  window  and  looked  out,  and  Mrs.  Newberry  turned 
her  head.  Her  face  became  slowly  red;  she  never 
had  looked  prettier,  or  more  incomprehensible.  He 
waved  his  hand  affectionately,  and  said  good-morning; 
she  answered  with  embarrassment,  having  ceased  her 
occupation  on  the  instant  that  she  saw  him,  and  rolled 
up  the  coat  half-cleaned. 

Stockdale  shut  the  window.  Some  simple  explana- 
tion of  her  proceeding  was  doubtless  within  the  bounds 
of  possibility ;  but  he  himself  could  not  think  of  one ; 
and  he  wished  that  she  had  placed  the  matter  beyond 
conjecture  by  voluntarily  saying  something  about  it 
there  and  then. 

»4S 


WESSEX   TALES 

But,  though  Lizzy  had  not  offered  an  explanation  at 
the  moment,  the  subject  was  brought  forward  by  her  at 
the  next  time  of  their  meeting.  She  was  chatting  to 
him  concerning  some  other  event,  and  remarked  that  it 
happened  about  the  time  when  she  was  dusting  some 
old  clothes  that  had  belonged  to  her  poor  husband. 

'  You  keep  them  clean  out  of  respect  to  his  memory  ? ' 
said  Stockdale  tentatively. 

'  I  air  and  dust  them  sometimes,'  she  said,  with  the 
most  charming  innocence  in  the  world. 

'  Do  dead  men  come  out  of  their  graves  and  walk  in 
mud  ? '  murmured  the  minister,  in  a  cold  sweat  at  the 
deception  that  she  was  practising. 

*  What  did  you  say  ? '  asked  Lizzy. 

*  Nothing,  nothing,'  said  he  mournfully.  '  Mere 
words — a  phrase  that  will  do  for  my  sermon  next 
Sunday.'  It  was  too  plain  that  Lizzy  was  unaware  that 
he  had  seen  actual  pedestrian  splashes  upon  the  skirts 
of  the  tell  tale  overcoat,  and  that  she  imagined  him  to 
believe  it  had  come  direct  from  some  chest  or  drawer. 

The  aspect  of  the  case  was  now  considerably  darker. 
St^okdale  was  so  much  depressed  by  it  that  he  did  not 
cnallenge  her  explanation,"  or  threaten  to  go  off  as  a 
missionary  to  benighted  islanders,  or  reproach  her  in 
any  way  whatever.  He  simply  parted  from  her  when 
she  had  done  talking,  and  lived  on  in  perplexity,  till  by 
degrees  his  natural  manner  became  sad  and  constrained. 


«_' 


AT  THE    TIME   OF  THE  NEW  MOON 

IV 

1  HE  following  Thursday  was  changeable,  damp,  and 
gloomy;  and  the  night  threatened  to  be  windy  and 
unpleasant.  Stockdale  had  gone  away  to  KnoUsea  in 
the  morning,  to  be  present  at  some  commemoration 
service  there,  and  on  his  return  he  was  met  by  the 
attractive  Lizzy  in  the  passage.  Whether  influenced 
by  the  tide  of  cheerfulness  which  had  attended  him 
that  day,  or  by  the  drive  through  the  open  air,  or 
whether  from  a  natural  disposition  to  let  bygones 
alone,  he  allowed  himself  to  be  fascinated  into  forget- 
fulness  of  the  greatcoat  incident,  and  upon  the  whole 
passed  a  pleasant  evening;  not  so  much  in  her  society 
as  within  sound  of  her  voice,  as  she  sat  talking  in  the 
back  parlour  to  her  mother,  till  the  latter  went  to  bed. 
Shortly  after  this  Mrs.  Newberrj'  retired,  and  then 
Stockdale  prepared  to  go  upstairs  himself  But  before 
he  left  the  room  he  remained  standing  by  the  dying 
embers  awhile,  thinking  long  of  one  thing  and  another; 
and  was  only  aroused  by  the  flickering  of  his  candle 
in  the  socket  as  it  suddenly  declined  and  went  out. 
Knowing  that  there  were  a  tinder-box,  matches,  and 
another  candle  in  his  bedroom,  he  felt  his  way  upstairs 
x  247 


WESSEX  TALES 

without  a  light.  On  reaching  his  chamber  he  laid  his 
hand  on  every  possible  ledge  and  corner  for  the  tinder- 
box,  but  for  a  long  time  in  vain.  Discovering  it  at 
length,  Stockdale  produced  a  spark,  and  was  kindling 
the  brimstone,  when  he  fancied  that  he  heard  a  move- 
ment in  the  passage.  He  blew  harder  at  the  lint,  the 
match  flared  up,  and  looking  by  aid  of  the  blue  light 
through  the  door,  which  had  been  standing  open  all 
this  time,  he  was  surprised  to  see  a  male  figure  vanish- 
ing round  the  top  of  the  staircase  with  the  evident 
intention  of  escaping  unobserved.  The  personage  wore 
the  clothes  which  Lizzy  had  been  brushing,  and  some- 
thing in  the  outline  and  gait  suggested  to  the  minister 
that  the  wearer  was  Lizzy  herself. 

But  he  was  not  sure  of  this;  and,  greatly  excited, 
Stockdale  determined  to  investigate  the  mystery,  and 
to  adopt  his  own  way  for  doing  it.  He  blew  out  the 
match  without  lighting  the  candle,  went  into  the  passage, 
and  proceeded  on  tiptoe  towards  Lizzy's  room.  A  faint 
grey  square  of  light  in  the  direction  of  the  chamber- 
window  as  he  approached  told  him  that  the  door  was 
open,  and  at  once  suggested  that  the  occupant  was  gone. 
He  turned  and  brought  down  his  fist  upon  the  handrail 
of  the  staircase :  *  It  was  she ;  in  her  late  husband's 
coat  and  hat  1 ' 

Somewhat  relieved  to  find  that  there  was  no  intruder 
in  the  case,  yet  none  the  less  surprised,  the  minister 
crept  down  the  stairs,  softly  put  on  his  boots,  overcoat, 
and  hat,  and  tried  the  front  door.  It  was  fastened  as 
usual :  he  went  to  the  back  door,  found  this  unlocked, 
and  emerged  into  the  garden.  The  night  was  mild  and 
moonless,  and  rain  had  lately  been  falling,  though  for 
the  present  it  had  ceased.  There  was  a  sudden  dropping 
from  the  trees  and  bushes  every  now  and  then,  as  each 
passing  wind  shook  their  boughs.  Among  these  sounds 
Stockdale  heard  the  faint  fall  of  feet  upon  the  road 
outside,  and   he   guessed   from    the   step   that  it  was 

248 


1-,' 


THE   DISTRACTED   PREACHER 


Lizzy's.  He  followed  the  sound,  and,  helped  by  the 
circumstance  of  the  wind  blomng  from  the  direction 
in  which  the  pedestrian  moved,  he  got  nearly  close  to 
her,  and  kept  there,  without  risk  of  being  overheard. 
While  he  thus  followed  her  up  the  street  or  lane,  as  it 
might  indifferently  be  called,  there  being  more  hedge 
than  houses  on  either  side,  a  figure  came  forward  to  her 
from  one  of  the  cottage  doors.  Lizzy  stopped;  the 
minister  stepped  upon  the  grass  and  stopped  also. 

'  Is  that  Mrs.  Newberry  ? '  said  the  man  who  had 
come  out,  whose  voice  Stockdale  recognized  as  that  of 
one  of  the  most  devout  members  of  his  congregation. 

♦  It  is,'  said  Lizzy. 

*  I  be  quite  ready — I've  been  here  this  quarter-hour.* 
*Ah,  John,'  said  she,  •!  have  bad  news;    there  is 

danger  to-night  for  our  venture.' 

*  And  d'ye  tell  o't !     I  dreamed  there  might  be.' 

♦  Yes,'  she  said  hurriedly ;  '  and  you  must  go  at  once 
round  to  where  the  chaps  are  waiting,  and  tell  them  they 
will  not  be  wanted  till  to-morrow  night  at  the  same  time. 
I  go  to  burn  the  lugger  off.' 

'  I  will,'  he  said ;  and  instantly  went  off  through  a 
gate,  Lizzy  continuing  her  way. 

On  she  tripped  at  a  quickening  pace  till  the  lane 
turned  into  the  turnpike-road,  which  she  crossed,  and 
got  into  the  track  for  Ringsworth.  Here  she  ascended 
the  hill  without  the  least  hesitation,  passed  the  lonely 
hamlet  of  Holworth,  and  went  down  the  vale  on  the 
other  side.  Stockdale  had  never  taken  any  extensive 
walks  in  this  direction,  but  he  was  aware  that  if  she 
persisted  in  her  course  much  longer  she  would  draw 
near  to  the  coast,  which  was  here  between  two  and 
three  miles  distant  from  Nether-Moynton ;  and  as  it 
had  been  about  a  quarter-past  eleven  o'clock  when  they 
set  out,  her  intention  seemed  to  be  to  reach  the  shore 
about  midnight. 

Lizzy  soon  ascended  a  small  mound,  which  Stockdale 

249 


WESSEX  TALES 

at  the  same  time  adroitly  skirted  on  the  left ;  and  a  dull 
monotonous  roar  burst  upon  his  ear.  The  hillock  was 
about  fifty  yards  from  the  top  of  the  cliffs,  and  by  day 
it  apparently  commanded  a  full  view  of  the  bay.  There 
was  light  enough  in  the  sky  to  show  her  disguised  figure 
against  it  when  she  reached  the  top,  where  she  paused, 
and  afterwards  sat  down.  Stockdale,  not  wishing  on 
any  account  to  alarm  her  at  this  moment,  yet  desirous 
of  being  near  her,  sank  upon  his  hands  and  knees,  crept 
a  little  higher  up,  and  there  stayed  still. 

The  wind  was  chilly,  the  ground  damp,  and  his 
position  one  in  which  he  did  not  care  to  remain  long. 
However,  before  he  had  decided  to  leave  it,  the  young 
man  heard  voices  behind  him.  What  they  signified  he 
did  not  know;  but,  fearing  that  Lizzy  was  in  danger, 
he  was  about  to  run  forward  and  warn  her  that  she 
might  be  seen,  when  she  crept  to  the  shelter  of  a  little 
bush  which  maintained  a  precarious  existence  in  that 
exposed  spot ;  and  her  form  was  absorbed  in  its  dark 
and  stunted  outline  as  if  she  had  become  part  of  it. 
She  had  evidently  heard  the  men  as  w^ell  as  he.  They 
passed  near  him,  talking  in  loud  and  careless  tones, 
which  could  be  heard  above  the  uninterrupted  washings 
of  the  sea,  and  which  suggested  that  they  were  not 
engaged  in  any  business  at  their  own  risk.  This  proved 
to  be  the  fact:  some  of  their  words  floated  across  to 
him,  and  caused  him  to  forget  at  once  the  coldness  of 
his  situation, 

« What's  the  vessel  ?  * 

*  A  lugger,  about  fifty  tons.' 

*  From  Cherbourg,  I  suppose  ?  * 

*  Yes,  'a  b'lieve.' 

*  But  it  don't  all  belong  to  Owlett  ?  * 

*  O  no.  He's  only  got  a  share.  There's  another  or 
tvro  in  it — a  farmer  and  such  like,  but  the  names  I 
don't  know.' 

The  voices  died  away,  and  the  heads  and  shoulders 

250 


THE   DISTRACTED  PREACHER 

of  the  men  diminished  towards  the  cliff,  and  dropped 
out  of  sight. 

'  My  darling  has  been  tempted  to  buy  a  ^are  by 
that  unbeliever  Owlett,'  groaned  the  minister,  his  honest 
affection  for  Lizzy  having  quickened  to  its  intensest 
point  during  these  moments  of  risk  to  her  person  and 
name.  'That's  why  she's  here,'  he  said  to  himself. 
'  O,  it  will  be  the  ruin  of  her ! ' 

His  perturbation  was  interrupted  by  the  sudden 
bursting  out  of  a  bright  and  increasing  light  from  the 
spot  where  Lizzy  was  in  hiding.  A  few  seconds  later, 
and  before  it  had  reached  the  height  of  a  blaze,  he 
heard  her  rush  past  him  down  the  hollow  like  a  stone 
from  a  sling,  in  the  direction  of  home.  The  light  now 
flared  high  and  wide,  and  showed  its  position  clearly. 
She  had  kindled  a  bough  of  furze  and  stuck  it  into  the 
bush  under  which  she  had  been  crouching ;  the  wind 
fanned  the  flame,  which  crackled  fiercely,  and  threatened 
to  consume  the  bush  as  well  as  the  bough.  Stockdale 
paused  just  long  enough  to  notice  thus  much,  and  then 
follov/ed  rapidly  the  route  taken  by  the  young  woman. 
His  intention  was  to  overtake  her,  and  reveal  himself 
as  a  friend ;  but  run  as  he  would  he  could  see  nothing 
of  her.  Thus  he  flew  across  the  open  country  about 
Holworth,  twisting  his  legs  and  ankles  in  unexpected 
fissures  and  descents,  till,  on  coming  to  the  gate  between 
the  downs  and  the  road,  he  was  forced  to  pause  to  get 
breath.  There  was  no  audible  movement  either  in  front 
or  behind  him,  and  he  now  concluded  that  she  had  not 
outrun  him,  but  that,  hearing  him  at  her  heels,  and 
believing  him  one  of  the  excise  party,  she  had  hidden 
herself  somewhere  on  the  way,  and  let  him  pass  by. 

He  went  on  at  a  more  leisurely  pace  towards  the 
village.  On  reaching  the  house  he  found  his  surmise 
to  be  correct,  for  the  gate  was  on  the  latch,  and  tlie 
door  unfastened,  just  as  he  had  left  them.  Stockdale 
closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  waited  silently  in  the 

251 


WESSEX  TALES 

passage.  In  about  ten  minutes  he  heard  the  same  light 
footstep  that  he  had  heard  in  going  out ;  it  paused  at 
the  gate,  which  opened  and  shut  softly,  and  then  the 
door-latch  was  lifted,  and  Lizzy  came  in. 

Stockdale  went  forward  and  said  at  once,  'Lizzy, 
don't  be  frightened.     I  have  been  waiting  up  for  you.' 

She  started,  though  she  had  recognized  the  voice. 
'  It  is  Mr.  Stockdale,  isn't  it  ? '  she  said; 

♦Yes,'  he  answered,  becoming  angry  now  that  she 
was  safe  indoors,  and  not  alarmed.  '  And  a  nice  game 
I've  found  you  out  in  to-night.  You  are  in  man's  clothes, 
and  I  am  ashamed  of  you ! ' 

Lizzy  could  hardly  find  a  voice  to  answer  this  un- 
expected reproach. 

*  I  am  only  partly  in  man's  clothes,'  she  faltered, 
shrinking  back  to  the  wall.  '  It  is  only  his  greatcoat 
and  hat  and  breeches  that  I've  got  on,  which  is  no 
harm,  as  he  was  my  own  husband;  and  I  do  it  only 
because  a  cloak  blows  about  so,  and  you  can't  use  your 
arms.  I  have  got  my  own  dress  under  just  the  same — 
it  is  only  tucked  in !  Will  you  go  away  upstairs  and  let 
me  pass  ?  I  didn't  want  you  to  see  me  at  such  a  time 
as  this !  * 

*  But  I  have  a  right  to  see  you !  How  do  you  think 
there  can  be  anything  between  us  now?'  Lizzy  was 
silent.     '  You  are  a  smuggler,'  he  continued  sadly. 

'  I  have  only  a  share  in  the  run,'  she  said. 

'That  makes  no  difference.  Whatever  did  you 
engage  in  such  a  trade  as  that  for,  and  keep  it  such  a 
secret  from  me  all  this  time  ? ' 

'  I  don't  do  it  always.  I  only  do  it  in  winter-time 
when  'tis  new  moon.' 

'Well,  I  suppose  that's  because  it  can't  be  done 
anywhen  else.  .  .  .  You  have  regularly  upset  me, 
Lizzy.' 

'  I  am  sorry  for  that,'  Lizzy  meekly  replied. 

*  Well  now,'  said  he  more  tenderly,  '  no  harm  is  done 

252 


1-- 


THE  DISTRACTED  PREACHXR 


as  yet.     Won't  you  for  the  sake  of  me  give  up  this 
blamable  and  dangerous  practice  altogether  ? ' 

«I  must  do  my  best  to  save  this  run,'  said  she, 
getting  rather  husky  in  the  throat.  'I  don't  want  to 
give  you  up — you  know  that ;  but  I  don't  want  to  lose 
my  venture.  I  don't  know  what  to  do  now !  Why  I 
have  kept  it  so  secret  from  you  is  that  I  was  afraid  you 
would  be  angry  if  you  knew.' 

*  I  should  think  so  !  I  suppose  if  I  had  married  you 
without  finding  this  out  you'd  have  gone  on  with  it  just 
the  same  ? ' 

«I  don't  know.  I  did  not  think  so  far  ahead.  I 
only  went  to-night  to  burn  the  folks  off,  because  we 
found  that  the  excisemen  knew  where  the  tubs  were  to 
be  landed.' 

'  It  is  a  pretty  mess  to  be  in  altogether,  is  this,'  said 
the  distracted  young  minister.  « Well,  what  will  you  do 
now  ? ' 

Lizzy  slowly  murmured  the  particulars  of  their  plan, 
the  chief  of  which  were  that  they  meant  to  try  their  luck 
at  some  other  point  of  the  shore  the  next  night;  that 
three  landing-places  were  always  agreed  upon  before 
the  run  was  attempted,  with  the  understanding  that, 
if  the  vessel  was  *  burnt  off '  from  the  first  point,  which 
was  Ringsvvorth,  as  it  had  been  by  her  to-night,  the 
crew  should  attempt  to  make  the  second,  which  was 
Lulstead  Cove,  on  the  second  night ;  and  if  there,  too, 
danger  threatened,  they  should  on  the  third  night  try  the 
third  place,  which  was  behind  a  headland  further  west. 

'Suppose  the  officers  hinder  them  landing  there 
too?'  he  said,  his  attention  to  this  interesting  pro- 
gramme displacing  for  a  moment  his  concern  at  her 
share  in  it. 

'Then  we  shan't  try  anywhere  else  all  this  dark — 
that's  what  we  call  the  time  between  moon  and  moon 
— and  perhaps  they'll  string  the  tubs  to  a  stray-line, 
and  sink  'em  a  Uttle-ways  from  shore,  and  take  the 

253 


WESSEX  TALES 

bearings;  and  then  when  they  have  a  chance  they'll 
go  to  creep  for  'em.' 

'  What's  that  ? ' 

'  O,  they'll  go  out  in  a  boat  and  drag  a  creeper — 
that's  a  grapnel — along  the  bottom  till  it  catch  hold  of 
the  stray-line.' 

The  minister  stood  thinking;  and  there  was  no 
sound  within  doors  but  the  tick  of  the  clock  on  the 
stairs,  and  the  quick  breathing  of  Lizzy,  partly  from 
her  walk  and  partly  from  agitation,  as  she  stood  close 
to  the  wall,  not  in  such  complete  darkness  but  that 
he  could  discern  against  its  whitewashed  surface  the 
greatcoat  and  broad  hat  which  covered  her. 

'  Lizzy,  all  this  is  very  wrong,'  he  said.  *  Don't  you 
remember  the  lesson  of  the  tribute-money  ?  "  Render 
unto  Caesar  the  things  that  are  Caesar's."  Surely  you 
have  heard  that  read  times  enough  in  your  growing  up  ? ' 

'  He's  dead,'  she  pouted. 

•  But  the  spirit  of  the  text  is  in  force  just  the  same.' 

*  My  father  did  it,  and "  so  did  my  grandfather,  and 
almost  everybody  in  Nether-Moynton  lives  by  it,  and 
life  would  be  so  dull  if  it  wasn't  for  that,  that  I  should 
not  care  to  live  at  all.' 

*I  am  nothing  to  live  for,  of  course,'  he  replied 
bitterly.  '  You  would  not  think  it  worth  while  to  give 
up  this  wild  business  and  live  for  me  alone  ? '   - 

'  I  have  never  looked  at  it  like  that.' 

'  And  you  won't  promise  and  wait  till  I  am  ready  ? ' 

'  I  cannot  give  you  my  word  to-night.'  And,  look- 
ing thoughtfully  down,  she  gradually  moved  and  moved 
away,  going  into  the  adjoining  room,  and  closing  the 
door  between  them.  She  remained  there  in  the  dark 
till  he  was  tired  of  waiting,  and  had  gone  up  to  his 
own  chamber. 

Poor  Stockdale  was  dreadfully  depressed  all  the 
next  day  by  the  discoveries  of  the  night  before.  Lizzy 
was  unmistakably  a  fascinating  young  woman,  but  as 

2.54 


*— f" 


THE   DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

a  minister's  wife  she  was  hardly  to  be  contemplated. 
'  If  I  had  only  stuck  to  father's  little  grocery  business, 
instead  of  going  in  for  the  ministry,  she  would  have 
suited  me  beautifully ! '  he  said  sadly,  until  he  remem- 
bered that  in  that  case  he  would  never  have  come  from 
his  distant  home  to  Nether-Moynton,  and  never  have 
known  her. 

The  estrangement  between  them  was  not  complete, 
but  it  was  sufficient  to  keep  them  out  of  each  other's 
company.  Once  during  the  day  he  met  her  in  the 
garden-path,  and  said,  turning  a  reproachful  eye  upon 
her,  '  Do  you  promise,  Lizzy  ?  '  But  she  did  not  reply. 
The  evening  drew  on,  and  he  knew  well  enough  that 
Lizzy  would  repeat  her  excursion  at  night — her  half- 
offended  manner  had  shown  that  she  had  not  the 
slightest  intention  of  altering  her  plans  at  present.  He 
did  not  wish  to  repeat  his  own  share  of  the  adventure ; 
but,  act  as  he  would,  his  uneasiness  on  her  account 
increased  with  the  decline  of  day.  Supposing  that 
an  accident  should  befall  her,  he  would  never  forgive 
himself  for  not  being  there  to  help,  much  as  he  dis- 
liked the  idea  of  seeming  to  countenance  such  unlawful 
escapades. 


HOW  THEY  WENT  TO 

LULSTEAD   COVE 


As  he  had  expected,  she  left  the  house  at  the  same 
hour  at  night,  this  time  passing  his  door  without  stealth, 
as  if  she  knew  very  well  that  he  would  be  watching, 
and  were  resolved  to  brave  his  displeasure.  He  was 
quite  ready,  opened  the  door  quickly,  and  reached  the 
back  door  almost  as  soon  as  she. 

'Then  you  will  go,  Lizzy?'  he  said  as  he  stood  on 
the  step  beside  her,  who  now  again  appeared  as  a  little 
man  with  a  face  altogether  unsuited  to  his  clothes. 

•  I  must,'  she  said,  repressed  by  his  stern  manner. 

•  Then  I  shall  go  too,'  said  he. 

•  And  I  am  sure  you  will  enjoy  it ! '  she  exclaimed 
in  more  buoyant  tones.  'Everybody  does  who  tries 
it.' 

•  God  forbid  that  I  should ! '  he  said.  '  But  I  must 
look  after  you.' 

They  opened  the  wicket  and  went  up  the  road 
abreast  of  each  other,  but  at  some  distance  apart, 
scarcely  a  word  passing  between  them.  The  evening 
was  rather  less  favourable  to  smuggling  enterprise  than 
the  last  had  been,  the  wind  being  lower,  and  the  sky 
somewhat  clear  towards  the  north. 

256 


THE  DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

•  It  is  rather  lighter,'  said  Stockdale. 

*  'Tis,  unfortunately,'  said  she.  '  But  it  is  only  frcm 
those  few  stars  over  there.  The  moon  was  new  to-day 
at  four  o'clock,  and  I  expected  clouds.  I  hope  we 
shall  be  able  to  do  it  this  dark,  for  when  we  have  to 
sink  'era  for  long  it  makes  the  stuff  taste  bleachy,  and 
folks  don't  like  it  so  well.' 

Her  course  was  difierent  from  that  of  the  preceding 
night,  branching  off  to  the  left  over  Lord's  Barrow  as 
soon  as  they  had  got  out  of  the  lane  and  crossed  the 
highway.  By  the  time  they  reached  Chaldon  Down, 
Stockdale,  who  had  been  in  perplexed  thought  as  to 
what  he  should  say  to  her,  decided  that  he  would  not 
attempt  expostulation  now,  while  she  was  excited  by 
the  adventure,  but  wait  till  it  was  over,  and  endeavour 
to  keep  her  from  such  practices  in  future.  It  occurred 
to  him  once  or  twice,  as  they  rambled  on,  that  should 
they  be  surprised  by  the  excisemen,  his  situation  would 
be  more  awkward  than  hers,  for  it  would  be  difficult  to 
prove  his  true  motive  in  coming  to  the  spot;  but  the 
risk  was  a  slight  consideration  beside  his  wish  to  be 
with  her. 

They  now  arrived  at  a  ravine  which  lay  on  the 
outskirts  of  Chaldon,  a  village  two  miles  on  their  way 
towards  the  point  of  the  shore  they  sought.  Lizzy 
broke  the  silence  this  time  :  '  I  have  to  wait  here  to 
meet  the  carriers.  I  don't  know  if  they  have  come 
yet.  As  I  told  you,  we  go  to  Lulstead  Cove  to-night, 
and  it  is  two  miles  further  than  Ringsworth.' 

It  turned  out  that  the  men  had  already  come;  for 
while  she  spoke  two  or  three  dozen  heads  broke  the 
line  of  the  slope,  and  a  company  of  them  at  once 
descended  from  the  bushes  where  they  had  been  lying 
in  wait.  These  carriers  were  men  whom  Lizzy  and 
other  proprietors  regularly  employed  to  bring  the  tubs 
from  the  boat  to  a  hiding-place  inland.  They  were 
all  young    fellows    of  Nether- Moynton,   Chaldon,    and 

257  » 


WESSEX   TALES 

the  neighbourhood,  quiet  and  inoffensive  persons,  who 
simply  engaged  to  carry  the  cargo  for  Lizzy  and  her 
<^'       cousin    Owlett,   as    they  would   have  engaged   in   any 
other  labour  for  which  they  were  fairly  well  paid. 

At  a  word  from  her  they  closed  in  together.  '  You 
had  better  take  it  now,'  she  said  to  them ;  and  handed 
to  each  a  packet.  It  contained  six  shillings,  their 
remuneration  for  the  night's  undertaking,  which  was 
paid  beforehand  without  reference  to  success  or  failure; 
but,  besides  this,  they  had  the  privilege  of  selling  as 
agents  when  the  run  was  successfully  made.  As  soon 
as  it  was  done,  she  said  to  them,  *  The  place  is  the  old 
one  near  Lulstead  Cove ; '  the  men  till  that  moment  not 
having  been  told  whither  they  were  bound,  for  obvious 
reasons.  '  Owlett  will  meet  you  there,'  added  Lizzy. 
*  I  shall  follow  behind,  to  see  that  we  are  not  watched.' 

The  carriers  went  on,  and  Stockdale  and  Mrs.  New- 
berry followed  at  a  distance  of  a  stone's  throw.  *  What 
do  these  men  do  by  day  ? '  he  said. 

'Twelve  or  fourteen  of  them  are  labouring  men. 
Some  are  brickmakers,  some  carpenters,  some  shoe- 
makers, some  thatchers.  They  are  all  known  to  me  very 
well.     Nine  of  'em  are  of  your  own  congregation.' 

*  I  can't  help  that,'  said  Stockdale. 

'O,  I  know  you  can't.  I  only  told  you.  The 
others  are  more  church-inclined,  because  they  supply 
the  pa'son  with  all  the  spirits  he  requires,  and  they 
don't  wish  to  show  unfriendliness  to  a  customer.' 

'  How  do  you  choose  'em  ? '  said  Stockdale. 

'  We  choose  'em  for  their  closeness,  and  because  they 
are  strong  and  surefooted,  and  able  to  carry  a  heavy 
load  a  long  way  without  being  tired.' 

Stockdale  sighed  as  she  enumerated  each  particular, 
for  it  proved  how  far  involved  in  the  business  a  woman 
must  be  who  was  so  well  acquainted  with  its  conditions 
and  needs.  And  yet  he  felt  more  tenderly  towards  her 
at  this  moment  than  he  had  felt  all  the  foregoing  day. 

258 


«_- 


THE   DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

Perhaps  it  was  that  her  experienced  manner  and  bold 
indifference  stirred  his  admiration  in  spite  of  himself. 

*  Take  my  arm,  Lizzy,'  he  murmured. 

*  I  don't  want  it,'  she  said.  *  Besides,  we  may  never 
be  to  each  other  again  what  we  once  have  been.' 

*  That  depends  upon  you,'  said  he,  and  they  went  on 
again  as  before. 

The  hired  carriers  paced  along  over  Chaldon  Down 
with  as  little  hesitation  as  if  it  had  been  day,  avoiding 
the  cart-way,  and  leaving  the  village  of  East  Chaldon 
on  the  left,  so  as  to  reach  the  crest  of  the  hill  at  a 
lonely  trackless  place  not  far  from  the  ancient  earth- 
work called  Round  Pound.  An  hour's  brisk  walking 
brought  them  within  sound  of  the  sea,  not  many  hundred 
yards  from  Lulstead  Cove.  Here  they  paused,  and 
Lizzy  and  Stockdale  came  up  with  them,  when  they  went 
on  together  to  the  verge  of  the  cliff.  One  of  the  men 
now  produced  an  iron  bar,  which  he  drove  firmly  into 
the  soil  a  yard  from  the  edge,  and  attached  to  it 
a  rope  that  he  had  uncoiled  from  his  body.  They 
all  began  to  descend,  partly  stepping,  partly  sliding 
down  the  incline,  as  the  rope  slipped  through  their 
hands. 

'  You  will  not  go  to  the  bottom,  Lizzy  ? '  said  Stock- 
dale  anxiously. 

'  No.  I  stay  here  to  watch,'  she  said.  *  *  Owlett  is 
down  there.* 

The  men  remained  quite  silent  when  they  reached 
the  shore;  and  the  next  thing  audible  to  the  two  at 
the  top  was  the  dip  of  heavy  oars,  and  the  dashing  of 
waves  against  a  boat's  bow.  In  a  moment  the  keel 
gently  touched  the  shingle,  and  Stockdale  heard  the 
footsteps  of  the  thirty-six  carriers  running  forwarda  over 
the  pebbles  towards  the  point  of  landing. 

There  was  a  sousing  in  the  water  as  of  a  bmod  of 
ducks  plunging  in,  showing  that  the  men  had  not  been 
particular  about  keeping  their  legs,  or  even  their  waists, 

259 


WESSEX  TALES 

dry  from  the  brine :  but  it  was  impossible  to  see  what 
they  were  doing,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  shingle  was 
trampled  again.  The  iron  bar  sustaining  the  rope,  on 
which  Stockdale's  hand  rested,  began  to  swerve  a  little, 
and  the  carriers  one  by  one  appeared  cHmbing  up  the 
sloping  cliff,  dripping  audibly  as  they  came,  and  sus- 
taining themselves  by  the  guide-rope.  Each  man  on 
reaching  the  top  was  seen  to  be  carrying  a  pair  of  tubs, 
one  on  his  back  and  one  on  his  chest,  the  two  being 
slung  together  by  cords  passing  round  the  chine  hoops, 
and  resting  on  the  carrier's  shoulders.  Some  of  the 
stronger  men  carried  three  by  putting  an  extra  one  on 
the  top  behind,  but  the  customary  load  was  a  pair, 
these  being  quite  weighty  enough  to  give  their  bearer 
the  sensation  of  having  chest  and  backbone  in  contact 
after  a  walk  of  four  or  five  miles. 

'  Where  is  Owlett  ? '  said  Lizzy  to  one  of  them. 

*  He  will  not  come  up  this  way,'  said  the  carrier. 
'  He's  to  bide  on  shore  till  we  be  safe  off.'  Then, 
without  waiting  for  the  rest,  the  foremost  men  plunged 
across  the  down;  and,  when  the  last  had  ascended, 
Lizzy  pulled  up  the  rope,  wound  it  round  her  arm, 
wriggled  the  bar  from  the  sod,  and  turned  to  follow 
the  carriers. 

'You  are  very  anxious  about  Owlett's  safety,'  said 
the  minister. 

'  Was  there  ever  such  a  man !  *  said  Lizzy.  '  Why, 
isn't  he  my  cousin  ?  * 

*Yes.  Well,  it  is  a  bad  night's  work,'  said  Stock- 
dale  heavily.  'But  I'll  carry  the  bar  and  rope  for 
you.' 

'Thank  God,  the  tubs  have  got  so  far  all  right,' 
said  she. 

Stockdale  shook  his  head,  and,  taking  the  bar, 
walked  by  her  side  towards  the  downs;  and  the  moan 
of  the  sea  was  heard  no  more. 

*Is  this  what  you  meant  the  other  day  when  you 

260 


J_- 


THE   DISTRACTED   PREACHER 


spoke  of  having  business  with  Owlett  ? '  the  young  man 
asked. 

*  This  is  it,'  she  replied.  '  I  never  see  him  on  any 
other  matter.' 

'A  partnership  of  that  kind  with  a  young  man  is 
very  odd.' 

'  It  was  begun  by  my  father  and  his,  who  were 
brother-laws.' 

Her  companion  could  not  blind  himself  to  the  fact 
that  where  tastes  and  pursuits  were  so  akin  as  Lizzy's 
and  Owlett's,  and  where  risks  were  shared,  as  with 
them,  in  every  undertaking,  there  would  be  a  peculiar 
appropriateness  in  her  answering  Owlett's  standing 
question  on  matrimony  in  the  affirmative.  This  did 
not  soothe  Stockdale,  its  tendency  being  rather  to 
stimulate  in  him  an  effort  to  make  the  pair  as  inappro- 
priate as  possible,  and  win  her  away  from  this  nocturnal 
crew  to  correctness  of  conduct  and  a  minister's  parlour 
in  some  far-removed  inland  county. 

They  had  been  walking  near  enough  to  the  file  of 
carriers  for  Stockdale  to  perceive  that,  when  they  got 
into  the  road  to  the  village,  they  split  up  into  two 
companies  of  unequal  size,  each  of  which  made  off  in 
a  direction  of  its  own.  One  company,  the  smaller  of 
the  two,  went  towards  the  church,  and  by  the  time  that 
Lizzy  and  Stockdale  reached  their  own  house  these 
men  had  scaled  the  churchyard  wall,  and  were  proceed- 
ing noiselessly  over  the  grass  within. 

*  I  see  that  Owlett  has  arranged  for  one  batch  to 
be  put  in  the  church  again,'  observed  Lizzy.  *  Do  you 
remember  my  taking  you  there  the  first  night  you 
came?' 

*  Yes,  of  course,'  said  Stockdale.  '  No  wonder  you 
had  permission  to  broach  the  tubs — they  were  his,  I 
suppose  ? ' 

*  No,  they  were  not — they  were  mine ;  I  had  per- 
mission from   myself.     The  day  after  that    they  went 

361 


WESSEX  TALES 

several  miles  inland  in  a  waggon-load  of  manure,  and 
sold  very  well.' 

At  this  moment  the  group  of  men  who  had  made 
off  to  the  left  some  time  before  began  leaping  one  by 
one  from  the  hedge  opposite  Lizzy's  house,  and  the 
first  man,  who  had  no  tubs  upon  his  shoulders,  came 
forward. 

'  Mrs.  Newberry,  isn't  it  ?  *  he  said  hastily. 
!      *  Yes,  Jim,'  said  she.     *  What's  the  matter  ? ' 

'I  find  that  we  can't  put  any  in  Badger's  Clump 
to-night,  Lizzy,'  said  Owlett.  'The  place  is  watched. 
We  must  sling  the  apple-tree  in  the  orchet  if  there's 
time.  We  can't  put  any  more  under  the  church  lumber 
than  I  have  sent  on  there,  and  my  mixen  hev  already 
more  in  en  than  is  safe.* 

'Very  well,'  she  said.  'Be  quick  about  it — that's 
all.     What  can  I  do?' 

'Nothing  at  all,  please.  Ah,  it  is  the  minister! — 
you  two  that  can't  do  anything  had  better  get  indoors 
and  not  be  zeed.' 

While  Owlett  thus  conversed,  in  a  tone  so  full  of 
contraband  anxiety  and  so  free  from  lover's  jealousy, 
the  men  who  followed  him  had  been  descending  one 
by  one  from  the  hedge;  and  it  unfortunately  happened 
that  when  the  hindmost  took  his  leap,  the  cord  slipped 
which  sustained  his  tubs  :  the  result  was  that  both  the 
kegs  fell  into  the  road,  one  of  them  being  stove  in  by 
the  blow. 

*  'Od  drown  it  all ! '  said  Owlett,  rushing  back. 

'  It  is  worth  a  good  deal,  I  suppose  ? '  said  Stock- 
dale. 

'O  no — about  two  guineas  and  half  to  us  now,' 
said  Lizzy  excitedly.  '  It  isn't  that — it  is  the  smell  I 
It  is  so  blazing  strong  before  it  has  been  lowered  by 
water,  that  it  smells  dreadfully  when  spilt  in  the  road 
like  that  1  I  do  hope  Latimer  won't  pass  by  till  it  is 
gone  oS.* 

263 


i-^' 


THE   DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

Owlett  and  one  or  two  others  picked  up  the  burst 
tub  and  began  to  scrape  and  trample  over  the  spot, 
to  disperse  the  liquor  as  much  as  possible;  and  then 
they  all  entered  the  gate  of  Owlett's  orchard,  which 
adjoined  Liz-y's  garden  on  the  right.  Stockdale  did 
not  care  to  follow  them,  for  several  on  recognizing  hira 
had  looked  wonderingly  at  his  presence,  though  they 
said  nothing.  Lizzy  left  his  side  and  went  to  the 
bottom  of  the  garden,  looking  over  the  hedge  into  the 
orchard,  where  the  men  could  be  dimly  seen  bustling 
about,  and  apparently  hiding  the  tubs.  All  was  done 
noiselessly,  and  without  a  light;  and  when  it  was  over 
they  dispersed  in  different  directions,  those  who  had 
taken  their  cargoes  to  the  church  having  already  gone 
off  to  their  homes. 

Lizzy  returned  to  the  garden-gate,  over  which  Stock- 
dale  was  still  abstractedly  leaning.  *  It  is  all  finished : 
I  am  going  indoors  now,'  she  said  gently.  *  I  will  leave 
the  door  ajar  for  you.' 

♦  O  no — you  needn't,'  said  Stockdale ;  '  I  am  coming 
too.' 

But  before  either  of  them  had  moved,  the  faint  clatter 
of  horses'  hoofs  broke  upon  the  ear,  and  it  seemed  to 
come  from  the  point  where  the  track  across  the  down 
joined  the  hard  road. 

'  They  are  just  too  late ! '  cried  Lizzy  exultingly. 

♦  Who  ? '  said  Stockdale. 

'Latimer,  the  riding-officer,  and  some  assistant  of 
his.     We  had  better  go  indoors.* 

They  entered  the  house,  and  Lizzy  bolted  the  door. 
•  Please  don't  get  a  light,  Mr.  Stockdale,'  she  said. 

♦  Of  course  I  will  not,'  said  he. 

*I  thought  you  might  be  on  the  side  of  the  king,' 
said  Lizzy,  with  faintest  sarcasm. 

'  I  am,*  said  Stockdale.  '  But,  Liz/y  Newberry,  I 
love  you,  and  you  know  it  perfectly  well ;  and  you 
ought  to  know,  if  you  do  not,  what  I  iiave  saficred 
s  263 


WESSEX  TALES 

in    my  conscience   on    your    account    these    last    few 
days ! ' 

*  I  guess  very  well,'  she  said  hurriedly.  *  Yet  I  don't 
see  why.     Ah,  you  are  better  than  I ! ' 

The  trotting  of  the  horses  seemed  to  have  again  died 
away,  and  the  pair  of  listeners  touched  each  other's 
fingers  in  the  cold  '  Good-night '  of  those  whom  some- 
thing seriously  divided.  They  were  on  the  landing,  but 
before  they  had  taken  three  steps  apart,  the  tramp  of 
the  horsemen  suddenly  revived,  almost  close  to  the 
house.  Lizzy  turned  to  the  staircase  window,  opened 
the  casement  about  an  inch,  and  put  her  face  close 
to  the  aperture.  'Yes,  one  of  'em  is  Latimer,'  she 
whispered.  '  He  always  rides  a  white  horse.  One 
would  think  it  was  the  last  colour  for  a  man  in  that 
line.' 

Stockdale  looked,  and  saw  the  white  shape  of  the 
animal  as  it  passed  by ;  but  before  the  riders  had  gone 
another  ten  yards,  Latimer  reined  in  his  horse,  and  said 
something  to  his  companion  which  neither  Stockdale 
nor  Lizzy  could  hear.  Its  drift  was,  however,  soon 
made  evident,  for  the  other  man  stopped  also ;  and 
sharply  turning  the  horses'  heads  they  cautiously  re- 
traced their  steps.  When  they  were  again  opposite 
Mrs.  Newberry's  garden,  Latimer  dismounted,  and  the 
man  on  the  dark  horse  did  the  same. 

Lizzy  and  Stockdale,  intently  listening  and  observing 
the  proceedings,  naturally  put  their  heads  as  close  as 
possible  to  the  slit  formed  by  the  slightly  opened  case- 
ment ;  and  thus  it  occurred  that  at  last  their  cheeks 
came  positively  into  contact.  They  went  on  listening, 
as  if  they  did  not  know  of  the  singular  incident  which 
had  happened  to  their  faces,  and  the  pressure  of  each 
to  each  rather  increased  than  lessened  with  the  lapse 
of  time. 

They  could  hear  the  excisemen  sniffing  the  air  like 
hounds  as  they  paced  slowly  along.    "When  they  reached 

204 


THE   DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

the  spot,  where  the  tub  had  burst,  both  stopped  on  the 
instant. 

'  Ay,  ay,  'tis  quite  strong  here,'  said  the  second 
officer.     '  Shall  we  knock  at  the  door  ? ' 

•Well,  no,'  said  Latimer.  'Maybe  this  is  only  a 
trick  to  put  us  off  the  scent.  They  wouldn't  kick  up 
this  stink  anywhere  near  their  hiding-place.  I  have 
known  such  things  before.' 

'Anyhow,  the  things,  or  some  of  'em,  must  have 
been  brought  this  way,'  said  the  other. 

'Yes,'  said  Latimer  musingly.  '  Unless  'tis  all  done 
to  tole  us  the  wrong  way.  I  have  a  mind  that  we  go 
home  for  to-night  without  saying  a  word,  and  come  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning  with  more  hands.  I  know 
they  have  storages  about  here,  but  we  can  do  nothing 
by  this  owl's  light.  We  will  look  round  the  parish  and 
see  if  everybody  is  in  bed,  John ;  and  if  all  is  quiet,  we 
will  do  as  I  say.' 

They  went  on,  and  the  two  inside  the  window  could 
hear  them  passing  leisurely  through  the  whole  village, 
the  street  of  which  curved  round  at  the  bottom  and 
entered  the  turnpike  road  at  another  junction.  This 
way  the  excisemen  followed,  and  the  amble  of  their 
horses  died  quite  away. 

'What  will  you  do?'  said  Stockdale,  withdrawing 
from  his  position. 

She  knew  that  he  alluded  to  the  coming  search  by 
the  officers,  to  divert  her  attention  from  their  own 
tender  incident  by  the  casement,  which  he  wished  to 
be  passed  over  as  a  thing  rather  dreamt  of  than  done. 
'  O,  nothing,'  she  replied,  with  as  much  coolness  as 
she  could  command  under  her  disappointment  at  his 
manner.  '  We  often  have  such  storms  as  this.  You 
would  not  be  frightened  if  you  knew  what  fools  they 
are.  Fancy  riding  o'  horseback  through  the  placer 
of  course  they  will  hear  and  see  nobody  while  they 
make  that  noise;  but  they  are  always  afraid  to  get  oflf, 

265 


WESSEX  TALES 


in  case  some  of  our  fellows  should  burst  out  upon  'em, 
and  tie  them  up  to  the  gate-post,  as  they  have  done 
before  now.     Good-night,  Mr.  Stockdale.' 

She  closed  the  window  and  went  to  her  room,  where 
a  tear  fell  from  her  eyes ;  and  that  not  because  of  the 
alertness  of  the  riding-officers. 


THE  GREA  T  SEARCH  A  T 

NE  THER-MO  YNTON 

VI 

StOCKDALE  was  so  excited  by  the  events  of  the 
evening,  and  the  dilemma  that  he  was  placed  in  between 
conscience  and  love,  that  he  did  not  sleep,  or  even 
doze,  but  remained  as  broadly  awake  as  at  noonday. 
As  soon  as  the  grey  light  began  to  touch  ever  so  faintly 
the  v/hiter  objects  in  his  bedroom  he  arose,  dressed 
himself,  and  went  downstairs  into  the  road. 

The  village  was  already  astir.  Several  of  the 
carriers  had  heard  the  well-known  tramp  of  Latimer's 
horse  while  they  were  undressing  in  the  dark  that 
night,  and  had  already  communicated  with  each  other 
and  Owlett  on  the  subject.  The  only  doubt  seemed 
to  be  about  the  safety  of  those  tubs  which  had  been 
left  under  the  church  gallery-stairs,  and  after  a  short 
discussion  at  the  corner  of  the  mill,  it  was  agreed 
that  these  should  be  removed  before  it  got  lighter, 
and  hidden  in  the  middle  of  a  double  hedge  border- 
ing the  adjoining  field.  However,  before  anything 
could  be  carried  into  effect,  the  footsteps  of  many  men 
were  heard  coming  down  the  lane  from  the  highway. 

'  Damn  it,  here  they  be,'  said  Owlett,  who,  having 
already  drawn  the  hatch  and  started  his  mill  for  the 

267 


^ 


WESSEX  TALES 

day,  stood  stolidly  at  the  mill-door  covered  with  flour, 
as  if  the  interest  of  his  whole  soul  was  bound  up  in 
the  shaking  walls  around  him. 

The  two  or  three  with  whom  he  had  been  talking 
dispersed  to  their  usual  work,  and  when  the  excise 
officers,  and  the  formidable  body  of  men  they  had 
hired,  reached  the  village  cross,  between  the  mill  and 
Mrs.  Newberry's  house,  the  village  wore  the  natural 
aspect  of  a  place  beginning  its  morning  labours. 

'  Now,'  said  Latimer  to  his  associates,  who  numbered 
thirteen  men  in  all,  *  what  I  know  is  that  the  things  are 
somewhere  in  this  here  place.  We  have  got  the  day 
before  us,  and  'tis  hard  if  we  can't  light  upon  'em  and 
get  'em  to  Budmouth  Custom-house  before  night.  First 
we  will  try  the  fuel-houses,  and  then  we'll  work  our  way 
into  the  chimmers,  and  then  to  the  ricks  and  stables, 
and  so  creep  round.  You  have  nothing  but  your  noses 
to  guide  ye,  mind,  so  use  'em  to-day  if  you  never  did  in 
your  lives  before.* 

Then  the  search  began.  Owlett,  during  the  early 
part,  watched  from  his  mill-window,  Lizzy  from  the  door 
of  her  house,  with  the  greatest  self-possession.  A  farmer 
down  below,  who  also  had  a  share  in  the  run,  rode  about 
with  one  eye  on  his  fields  and  the  other  on  Latimer  and 
his  myrmidons,  prepared  to  put  them  off  the  scent  if 
he  should  be  asked  a  question.  Stockdale,  who  was  no 
smuggler  at  all,  felt  more  anxiety  than  the  worst  of  them, 
and  went  about  his  studies  with  a  heavy  heart,  coming 
frequently  to  the  door  to  ask  Lizzy  some  question  or  other 
on  the  consequences  to  her  of  the  tubs  being  found. 

*  The  consequences,'  she  said  quietly,  '  are  simply 
that  I  shall  lose  'em.  As  I  have  none  in  the  house  or 
garden,  they  can't  touch  me  personally,* 

*  But  you  have  some  in  the  orchard  ?  * 

*  Owlett  rents  that  of  me,  and  he  lends  it  to  others. 
So  it  will  be  hard  to  say  who  put  any  tubs  there  if  they 
should  be  found.* 

«68 


THE  DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

Tliere  was  never  such  a  tremendous  sniffing  known 
as  that  which  took  place  in  Nether-Moynton  parish  and 
its  vicinity  this  day.  All  was  done  methodically,  and 
mostly  on  hands  and  knees.  At  different  hours  of  the 
day  they  had  different  plans.  From  daybreak  to  break- 
fast-time the  officers  used  their  sense  of  smell  in  a  direct 
and  straightforward  manner  only,  pausing  nowhere  but 
at  such  places  as  the  tubs  might  be  supposed  to  be 
secreted  in  at  that  very  moment,  pending  their  removal 
on  the  following  night.  Among  the  places  tested  and 
examined  were : — 


Hollow  trees 

Potato-graves 
Fuel-houses 
Bedrooms 
Apple-lofts 


Cupboards 

Clock-cases 

Chimney-flues 

Rainwater-butts 

Pigsties 


Culverts 
Hedgerows 
Faggot-ricks 
Haystacks 
Coppers  and  ovens. 


After  breakfast  they  recommenced  with  renewed 
vigour,  taking  a  new  line;  that  is  to  say,  directing 
their  attention  to  clothes  that  might  be  supposed  to 
have  come  in  contact  with  the  tubs  in  their  removal 
from  the  shore,  such  garments  being  usually  tainted 
with  the  spirit,  owing  to  its  oozing  between  the  staves. 
They  now  sniffed  at — 


Smock-frocks 

Old  shirts  and  waistcoats 

Coats  and  hats 

Breeches  and  leggings 

"Women's  shawls  and  gowns 


Smiths'  and  shoemakers'  aprons 

Knee-naps  and  hedging-gloves 

Tarpaulins 

Market-cloaks 

Scarecrows 


And  as  soon  as  the  mid-day  meal  was  over,  they  pushed 
their  search  into  places  where  the  spirits  might  have  been 
thrown  away  in  alarm  : — 


Horse-ponds 
Stable-drains 
Cinder -heaps 


Mixens 
Wet  ditches 
Cesspools 

269 


Sinks  in  yards 
Road-scrapings,  and 
Back-door  gutters. 


WESSEX  TALES 

But  still  these  indefatigable  excisemen  discoveied 
nothing  more  than  the  original  tell-tale  smell  in  the 
road  opposite  Lizzy's  house,  which  even  yet  had  not 
passed  off. 

•  I'll  tell  ye  what  it  is,  men,'  said  Latimer,  about 
three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  '  we  must  begin  over 
again.     Find  them  tubs  I  will.' 

The  men,  who  had  been  hired  for  the  day,  looked 
at  their  hands  and  knees,  muddy  with  creeping  on  all 
fours  so  frequently,  and  rubbed  their  noses,  as  if  they 
had  almost  had  enough  of  it;  for  the  quantity  of  bad 
air  which  had  passed  into  each  one's  nostril  had  rendered 
it  nearly  as  insensible  as  a  flue.  However,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  they  prepared  to  start  anew,  except 
three,  whose  power  of  smell  had  quite  succumbed  under 
the  excessive  wear  and  tear  of  the  day. 

By  this  time  not  a  male  villager  was  to  be  seen  in 
the  parish.  Owlett  was  not  at  his  mill,  the  farmers 
were  not  in  their  fields,  the  parson  was  not  in  his 
garden,  the  smith  had  left  his  forge,  and  the  wheel- 
wright's shop  was  silent. 

'  Where  the  divil  are  the  folk  gone  ?  '  said  Latimer, 
waking  up  to  the  fact  of  their  absence,  and  looking 
round.  *  I'll  have  'em  up  for  this  !  Why  don't  they 
come  and  help  us  ?  There's  not  a  man  about  the  place 
but  the  Methodist  parson,  and  he's  an  old  woman.  I 
demand  assistance  in  the  king's  name  ! ' 

'  We  must  find  the  jineral  public  afore  we  can  demand 
that,'  said  his  lieutenant. 

'Well,  well,  we  shall  do  better  without  'em,'  said 
Latimer,  who  changed  his  moods  at  a  moment's  notice. 
*  But  there's  great  cause  of  suspicion  in  this  silence  and 
this  keeping  out  of  sight,  and  I'll  bear  it  in  mind.  Now 
we  will  go  across  to  Owlett's  orchard,  and  see  what 
we  can  find  there.' 

Stockdale,  who  heard  this  discussion  from  the  garden- 
gate,  over  which  he  had  been  leaning,  was  rather  alarmed, 

270 


1_' 

THE  DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

and  thought  it  a  mistake  of  the  villagers  to  keep  so 
completely  out  of  the  way.  He  himself,  like  the 
excisemen,  had  been  wondering  for  the  last  half-hour 
what  could  have  become  of  them.  Some  labourers 
were  of  necessity  engaged  in  distant  fields,  but  the 
master- workmen  should  have  been  at  home;  though 
one  and  all,  after  just  showing  themselves  at  their 
shops,  had  apparently  gone  off  for  the  day.  He  went 
in  to  Lizzy,  who  sat  at  a  back  window  sewing,  and 
said,  '  Lizzy,  where  are  the  men  ? ' 

Lizzy  laughed.  '  Where  they  mostly  are  when 
they're  run  so  hard  as  this.'  She  cast  her  eyes  to 
heaven.     '  Up  there,'  she  said. 

Stockdale  looked  up.  '  What — on  the  top  of  the 
church  tower?'  he  asked,  seeing  the  direction  of  her 
glance. 

'  Yes.' 

'  Well,  I  expect  they  will  soon  have  to  come  down,* 
said  he  gravely.  '  I  have  been  listening  to  the  officers, 
and  they  are  going  to  search  the  orchard  over  again, 
and  then  every  nook  in  the  church.' 

Lizzy  looked  alarmed  for  the  first  time.  *  Will  you 
go  and  tell  our  folk  ? '  she  said.  '  They  ought  to  be 
let  know.'  Seeing  his  conscience  struggling  within 
him  like  a  boiling  pot,  she  added,  '  No,  never  mind, 
I'll  go  myself,' 

She  went  out,  descended  the  garden,  and  climbed 
over  the  churchyard  wall  at  the  same  time  that  the 
preventive-men  were  ascending  the  road  to  the  orchard. 
Stockdale  could  do  no  less  than  follow  her.  By  the 
time  that  she  reached  the  tower  entrance  he  was  at 
her  side,  and  they  entered  together. 

Nether- Moynton  church- tower  was,  as  in  many 
villages,  without  a  turret,  and  the  only  way  to  the  top 
was  by  going  up  to  the  singers'  gallery,  and  thence 
ascending  by  a  ladder  to  a  square  trap-door  in  the  floor 
of  the  bell-loft,  above  which  a  permanent  ladder  was 

271 


WESSEX   TALES 

fixed,  passing  through  the  bells  to  a  hole  in  the  roof. 
When  Lizzy  and  Stockdale  reached  the  gallery  and 
looked  up,  nothing  but  the  trap-door  and  the  five  holes 
for  the  bell-ropes  appeared.     The  ladder  was  gone. 

*  There's  no  getting  up,'  said  Stockdale. 

*  O  yes,  there  is,'  said  she.  *  There's  an  eye  looking 
at  us  at  this  moment  through  a  knot-hole  in  that  trap- 
door.' 

And  as  she  spoke  the  trap  opened,  arid  the  dark  Hne 
of  the  ladder  was  seen  descending  against  the  white- 
washed wall.  When  it  touched  the  bottom  Lizzy  dragged 
it  to  its  place,  and  said,  '  If  you'll  go  up,  I'll  follow.' 

The  young  man  ascended,  and  presently  found  him- 
self among  consecrated  bells  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
nonconformity  having  been  in  the  Stockdale  blood  for 
some  generations.  He  eyed  them  uneasily,  and  looked 
round  for  Lizzy.  Owlett  stood  here,  holding  the  top 
of  the  ladder. 

'  What,  be  you  really  one  of  us  ?  *  said  the  miller. 

*  It  seems  so,'  said  Stockdale  sadly. 

'  He's  not,'  said  Lizzy,  who  overheard.  '  He's  neither 
for  nor  against  us.     He'll  do  us  no  harm.' 

She  stepped  up  beside  them,  and  then  they  went  on 
to  the  next  stage,  which,  when  they  had  clambered  over 
the  dusty  bell-carriages,  was  of  easy  ascent,  leading 
towards  the  hole  through  which  the  pale  sky  appeared, 
and  into  the  open  air.  Owlett  remained  behind  for  a 
moment,  to  pull  up  the  lower  ladder. 

'  Keep  down  your  heads,*  said  a  voice,  as  soon  as 
they  set  foot  on  the  flat. 

Stockdale  here  beheld  all  the  missing  parishioners, 
lying  on  their  stomachs  on  the  tower  roof,  except  a  few 
who,  elevated  on  their  hands  and  knees,  were  peeping 
through  the  embrasures  of  the  parapet.  Stockdale  did 
the  same,  and  saw  the  village  lying  like  a  map  below 
him,  over  which  moved  the  figures  of  the  excisemen, 
each  foreshortened  to  a  crablike  object,  the  crown  of 

272 


THE   DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

his  hat  forming  a  circular  disc  in  the  centre  of  him. 
Some  of  the  men  had  turned  their  heads  when  the 
young  preacher's  figure  arose  among  them. 

'  What,  Mr.  Stockdale  ? '  said  Matt  Grey,  in  a  tone 
of  surprise. 

'  Fd  as  lief  that  it  hadn't  been,'  said  Jim  Clarke. 
'  If  the  pa'son  should  see  him  a  trespassing  here  in  his 
tower,  'twould  be  none  the  better  for  we,  seeing  how  'a 
do  hate  chapel-members.  He'd  never  buy  a  tub  of  us 
again,  and  he's  as  good  a  customer  as  we  have  got  this 
side  o'  Warm'lL' 

'  Where  is  the  pa'son  ? '  said  Lizzy. 

'  In  his  house,  to  be  sure,  that  he  mid  see  nothing 
of  what's  going  on — where  all  good  folks  ought  to  be, 
and  this  young  man  likewise.' 

'  Well,  he  has  brought  some  news,'  taid  Lizzy. 
*  They  are  going  to  search  the  orchet  and  church ;  can 
we  do  anything  if  they  should  find  ?  * 

*  Yes,'  said  her  cousin  Owlett.  '  That's  what  we've 
been  talking  o',  and  we  have  settled  our  line.  Well,  be 
dazed ! ' 

The  exclamation  was  caused  by  his  perceiving  that 
some  of  the  searchers,  having  got  into  the  orchard,  and 
begun  stooping  and  creeping  hither  and  thither,  were 
pausing  in  the  middle,  where  a  tree  smaller  than  the 
rest  was  growing.  They  drew  closer,  and  bent  lower 
than  ever  upon  the  ground. 

'  O,  my  tubs ! '  said  Lizzy  faintly,  as  she  peered 
through  the  parapet  at  them. 

•  They  have  got  'em,  'a  b'lieve,'  said  Owlett. 

The  interest  in  the  movements  of  the  officers  was 
so  keen  that  not  a  single  eye  was  looking  in  any  other 
direction ;  but  at  that  moment  a  shout  from  the  church 
beneath  them  attracted  the  attention  of  the  smugglers, 
as  it  did  also  of  the  party  in  the  orchard,  who  sprang  to 
their  feet  and  went  towards  the  churchyard  wall  At 
the  same  time  those  of  the  Government  men  who  had 

273  • 


WESSEX  TALES 

entered  the  church  unperceived  by  the  smugglers  cried 
aloud,  '  Here  be  some  of  'em  at  last.' 

The  smugglers  remained  in  a  blank  silence,  uncer- 
tain whether  '  some  of  'em '  meant  tubs  or  men ;  but 
again  peeping  cautiously  over  the  edge  of  the  tower 
they  learnt  that  tubs  were  the  things  descried;  and 
soon  these  fated  articles  were  brought  one  by  one  into 
the  middle  of  the  churchyard  from  their  hiding-place 
under  the  gallery-stairs. 

'  They  are  going  to  put  'em  on  Hinton's  vault  till 
they  find  the  rest ! '  said  Lizzy  hopelessly.  The  excise- 
men had,  in  fact,  begun  to  pile  up  the  tubs  on  a  large 
stone  slab  which  was  fixed  there;  and  when  all  were 
brought  out  from  the  tower,  two  or  three  of  the  men 
were  left  standing  by  them,  the  rest  of  the  party  again 
proceeding  to  the  orchard. 

The  interest  of  the  smugglers  in  the  next  manoeuvres 
of  their  enemies  became  painfully  intense.  Only  about 
thirty  tubs  had  been  secreted  in  the  lumber  of  the  tower, 
but  seventy  were  hidden  in  the  orchard,  making  up  all 
that  they  had  brought  ashore  as  yet,  the  remainder  of 
the  cargo  having  been  tied  to  a  sinker  and  dropped 
overboard  for  another  night's  operations.  The  excise- 
men, having  re-entered  the  orchard,  acted  as  if  they 
were  positive  that  here  lay  hidden  the  rest  of  the  tubs, 
which  they  were  determined  to  find  before  nightfall. 
They  spread  themselves  out  round  the  field,  and  ad- 
vancing on  all  fours  as  before,  went  anew  round  every 
apple-tree  in  the  enclosure.  The  young  tree  in  the 
middle  again  led  them  to  pause,  and  at  length  the  whole 
company  gathered  there  in  a  way  which  signified  that 
a  second  chain  of  reasoning  had  led  to  the  same  results 
as  the  first. 

When  they  had  examined  the  sod  hereabouts  for  some 
minutes,  one  of  the  men  rose,  ran  to  a  disused  porch  of 
the  church  where  tools  were  kept,  and  returned  with  the 
sexton's  pickaxe  and  shovel,  with  which  they  set  to  work. 

274 


THE   DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

*  Are  they  really  buried  there  ? '  said  the  minister,  for 
the  grass  was  so  green  and  uninjured  that  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  believe  it  had  been  disturbed.  The  smugglers 
were  too  interested  to  reply,  and  presently  they  saw,  to 
their  chagrin,  the  officers  stand  several  on  each  side  of  the 
tree;  and,  stooping  and  applying  their  hands  to  the 
soil,  they  bodily  lifted  the  tree  and  the  turf  around  it. 
The  apple-tree  now  showed  itself  to  be  growing  in  a 
shallow  box,  with  handles  for  lifting  at  each  of  the  four 
sides.  Under  the  site  of  the  tree  a  square  hole  was 
revealed,  and  an  exciseman  went  and  looked  down. 

*  It  is  all  up  now,'  said  Owlett  quietly.  '  And  now 
all  of  ye  get  down  before  they  notice  we  are  here ;  and 
be  ready  for  our  next  move.  I  had  better  bide  here 
till  dark,  or  they  may  take  me  on  suspicion,  as  'tis  on 
my  ground.  I'll  be  with  ye  as  soon  as  daylight  begins 
to  pink  in.' 

*  And  I  ? '  said  Lizzy. 

*  You  please  look  to  the  linch-pins  and  screws ;  then 
go  indoors  and  know  nothing  at  all.  The  chaps  will 
do  the  rest.' 

The  ladder  was  replaced,  and  all  but  Owlett  de- 
scended, the  men  passing  off  one  by  one  at  the  back  of 
the  church,  and  vanishing  on  their  respective  errands. 
Lizzy  walked  boldly  along  the  street,  followed  closely 
by  the  minister. 

*  You  are  going  indoors,  Mrs.  Newberry  ? '  he  said. 
She  knew  from   the   words    *  Mrs.   Newberry '  that 

the  division    between   them   had   widened  yet  another 
degree. 

'  I  am  not  going  home,'  she  said.  '  I  have  a  little 
thing  to  do  before  I  go  in.  Martha  Sarah  will  get 
your  tea.' 

*  O,  I  don't  mean  on  that  account,'  said  Stockdale. 
'What  can  you  have  to  do  further  in  this  unhallowed 
affair  ? ' 

'  Only  a  little,'  she  said. 

275 


WESSEX  TALES 

'  What  is  that  ?     I'll  go  with  you.' 

'  No,  I  shall  go  by  myself.  Will  you  please  go  in- 
doors ?     I  shall  be  there  in  less  than  an  hour.' 

*  You  are  not  going  to  run  any  danger,  Lizzy  ? '  said 
the  young  man,  his  tenderness  reasserting  itself. 

'  None  whatever — worth  mentioning,'  answered  she, 
and  went  down  towards  the  Cross. 

Stockdale  entered  the  garden  gate,  and  stood  behind 
it  looking  on.  The  excisemen  were  still  busy  in  the 
orchard,  and  at  last  he  was  tempted  to  enter,  and  watch 
their  proceedings.  When  he  came  closer  he  found  that 
the  secret  cellar,  of  whose  existence  he  had  been  totally 
unaware,  was  formed  by  timbers  placed  across  from 
side  to  side  about  a  foot  under  the  ground,  and  grassed 
over. 

The  excisemen  looked  up  at  Stockdale's  fair  and 
downy  countenance,  and  evidently  thinking  him  above 
suspicion,  went  on  with  their  work  again.  As  soon  as 
all  the  tubs  were  taken  out,  they  began  tearing  up  the 
turf,  pulling  out  the  timbers,  and  breaking  in  the  sides, 
till  the  cellar  was  wholly  dismantled  and  shapeless,  the 
apple-tree  lying  with  its  roots  high  to  the  air.  But  the 
hole  which  had  in  its  time  held  so  much  contraband 
merchandize  was  never  completely  filled  up,  either  then 
or  afterwards,  a  depression  in  the  greensward  marking 
the  spot  to  this  day. 


i^' 


THE  WALK  TO  WARM' ELL  CROSS 

AND  AFTERWARDS 

VII 

As  the  goods  had  all  to  be  carried  to  Budmouth  that 
night,  the  excisemen's  next  object  was  to  find  horses 
and  carts  for  the  journey,  and  they  went  about  the 
village  for  that  purpose.  Latimer  strode  hither  and 
thitlier  with  a  lump  of  chalk  in  his  hand,  marking 
broad-arrows  so  vigorously  on  every  vehicle  and  set  of 
harness  that  he  came  across,  that  it  seemed  as  if  he 
would  chalk  broad-arrows  on  the  very  hedges  and  roads. 
The  owner  of  every  conveyance  so  marked  was  bound 
to  give  it  up  for  Government  purposes.  Stockdale, 
who  had  had  enough  of  the  scene,  turned  indoors 
thoughtful  and  depressed.  Lizzy  was  already  there, 
having  come  in  at  the  back,  though  she  had  not  yet 
taken  off  her  bonnet.  She  looked  tired,  and  her  mood 
was  not  much  brighter  than  his  own.  They  had  but 
little  to  say  to  each  other;  and  the  minister  went  away 
and  attempted  to  read ;  but  at  this  he  could  not  suc- 
ceed, and  he  shook  the  little  bell  for  tea. 

Lizzy  herself  brought  in  the  tray,  the  girl  having 
run  off  into  the  village  during  the  afternoon,  too  full 
of  excitement  at  the  proceedings  to  remember  her 
state  of  life.     However,  almost  before  the  sad  lovers 

2;; 


WESSEX  TALES 

had  said  anything  to  each  other,  Martha  came  in  in  a 
steaming  state. 

'  O,  there's  such  a  stoor,  Mrs.  Newberry  and  Mr. 
Stockdale  !  The  king's  excisemen  can't  get  the  carts 
ready  nohow  at  all !  They  pulled  Thomas  Ballam's, 
and  William  Rogers's,  and  Stephen  Sprake's  carts  into 
the  road,  and  off  came  the  wheels,  and  down  fell  the 
carts;  and  they  found  there  was  no  linch-pins  in  the 
arms ;  and  then  they  tried  Samuel  Shane's  waggon, 
and  found  that  the  screws  were  gone  from  he,  and  at 
last  they  looked  at  the  dairyman's  cart,  and  he's  got 
none  neither!  They  have  gone  now  to  the  black- 
smith's to  get  some  made,  but  he's  nowhere  to  be 
found ! ' 

Stockdale  looked  at  Lizzy,  who  blushed  very  slightly, 
and  went  out  of  the  room,  followed  by  Martha  Sarah. 
But  before  they  had  got  through  the  passage  there 
was  a  rap  at  the  front  door,  and  Stockdale  recognized 
Latimer's  voice  addressing  Mrs.  Newberry,  who  had 
turned  back. 

*  For  God's  sake,  Mrs.  Newberry,  have  you  seen 
Hardman  the  blacksmith  up  this  way?  If  we  could 
get  hold  of  him,  we'd  e'en  a'most  drag  him  by  the  hair 
of  his  head  to  his  anvil,  where  he  ought  to  be.' 

'  He's  an  idle  man,  Mr  Latimer,'  said  Lizzy  archly. 
*  What  do  you  want  him  for  ? ' 

'  Why,  there  isn't  a  horse  in  the  place  that  has  got 
more  than  three  shoes  on,  and  some  have  only  two. 
The  waggon-wheels  be  without  strakes,  and  there's  no 
linch-pins  to  the  carts.  What  with  that,  and  the 
bother  about  every  set  of  harness  being  out  of  order, 
we  shan't  be  off  before  nightfall — upon  my  soul  we 
shan't.  *Tis  a  rough  lot,  Mrs.  Newberry,  that  you've 
got  about  you  here;  but  they'll  play  at  this  game 
once  too  often,  mark  my  words  they  will !  There's 
not  a  man  in  the  parish  that  don't  deserve  to  be 
whipped.' 

278 


THE  DISTRACTED-  PREACHER 

It  happened  that  Hardman  was  at  that  moment  a 
little  further  up  the  lane,  smoking  his  pipe  behind  a 
holly-bush.  When  Latimer  had  done  speaking  he  went 
on  in  this  direction,  and  Hardman,  hearing  the  excise- 
man's steps,  found  curiosity  too  strong  for  prudence. 
He  peeped  out  from  the  bush  at  the  very  moment  that 
Latimer's  glance  was  on  it.  There  was  nothing  left  for 
him  to  do  but  to  come  forward  with  unconcern. 

'  I've  been  looking  for  you  for  the  last  hour !  *  said 
Latimer  with  a  glare  in  his  eye. 

*  Sorry  to  hear  that,'  said  Hardman.  '  I've  been  out 
for  a  stroll,  to  look  for  more  hid  tubs,  to  deliver  'em  up 
to  Gover'ment,' 

'  O  yes,  Hardman,  we  know  it,'  said  Latimer,  with 
withering  sarcasm.  '  We  know  that  you'll  deliver  'em 
up  to  Gover'ment.  We  know  that  all  the  parish  is 
helping  us,  and  have  been  all  day  !  Now  you  please 
walk  along  with  me  down  to  your  shop,  and  kindly  let 
me  hire  ye  in  the  king's  name.' 

They  went  down  the  lane  together;  and  presently 
there  resounded  from  the  smithy  the  ring  of  a  hammer 
not  very  briskly  swung.  However,  the  carts  and  horses 
were  got  into  some  sort  of  travelling  condition,  but  it 
was  not  until  after  the  clock  had  struck  six,  when  the 
muddy  roads  were  glistening  under  the  horizontal  light 
of  the  fading  day.  The  smuggled  tubs  were  soon  packed 
into  the  vehicles,  and  Latimer,  with  three  of  his  assist- 
ants, drove  slowly  out  of  the  village  in  the  direction  of 
the  port  of  Budmouth,  some  considerable  number  of 
miles  distant,  the  other  excisemen  being  left  to  watch 
for  the  remainder  of  the  cargo,  which  they  knew  to  have 
been  sunk  somewhere  between  Ringsworth  and  Lulstead 
Cove,  and  to  unearth  Owlett,  the  only  person  clearly  im- 
plicated by  the  discovery  of  the  cave. 

Women  and  children  stood  at  the  doors  as  the  carts, 
each  chalked  with  the  Government  pitchfork,  passed  in 
the  increasing  twilight ;  and  as  they  stood  they  looked 

T  279 


WESSEX  TALES 

at  the  confiscated  property  with  a  melancholy  expression 
that  told  only  too  plainly  the  relation  which  they  bore 
to  the  trade. 

'Well,  Lizzy,'  said  Stockdale,  when  the  crackle  of 
the  wheels  had  nearly  died  away.  '  This  is  a  fit  finish 
to  your  adventure.  I  am  truly  thankful  that  you  have 
got  off  without  suspicion,  and  the  loss  only  of  the  liquor. 
Will  you  sit  down  and  let  me  talk  to  you  ? ' 

*  By  and  by,'  she  said.     '  But  I  must  go  out  now.* 
'  Not  to  that  horrid  shore  again  ?  '  he  said  blankly. 

*  No,  not  there.  I  am  only  going  to  see  the  end  of 
this  day's  business.' 

He  did  not  answer  to  this,  and  she  moved  towards 
the  door  slowly,  as  if  waiting  for  him  to  say  something 
more. 

'  You  don't  offer  to  come  with  me,'  she  added  at  last. 
'  I  suppose  that's  because  you  hate  me  after  all  this  ? ' 

*  Can  you  say  it,  Lizzy,  when  you  know  I  only  want 
to  save  you  from  such  practices  ?  Come  with  you  ! — 
of  course  I  will,  if  it  is  only  to  take  care  of  you.  But 
why  will  you  go  out  again  ?  ' 

'  Because  I  cannot  rest  indoors.  Something  is  hap- 
pening, and  I  must  know  what.  Now,  come ! '  And 
they  went  into  the  dusk  together. 

When  they  reached  the  turnpike-road  she  turned  to 
the  right,  and  he  soon  perceived  that  they  were  follow- 
ing the  direction  of  the  excisemen  and  their  load.  He 
had  given  her  his  arm,  and  every  now  and  then  she 
suddenly  pulled  it  back,  to  signify  that  he  was  to  halt 
a  moment  and  Usten.  They  had  walked  rather  quickly 
along  the  first  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  on  the  second  or 
third  time  of  standing  still  she  said,  '  I  hear  them  ahead 
— don't  you  ? ' 

'Yes,'  he  said;  'I  hear  the  wheels.  But  what  of 
that  ? ' 

'  I  only  want  to  know  if  they  get  clear  away  from 
the  neighbourhood.' 

280 


THE   DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

*  Ah,'  said  he,  a  light  breaking  upon  him.  *  Some- 
thing desperate  is  to  be  attempted ! — and  now  I  re- 
member there  was  not  a  man  about  the  village  when 
we  left.' 

'  Hark ! '  she  murmured.  The  noise  of  the  cart- 
wheels had  stopped,  and  given  place  to  another  sort  ol 
sound. 

"Tis  a  scuffle!'  said  Stockdale.  'There'll  be 
murder !  Lizzy,  let  go  my  arm ;  I  am  going  on.  On 
my  conscience,  I  must  not  stay  here  and  do  nothing ! ' 

'There'll  be  no  murder,  and  not  even  a  broken 
head,'  she  said.  '  Our  men  are  thirty  to  four  of  them : 
no  harm  will  be  done  at  all.' 

'Then  there  is  an  attack!'  exclaimed  Stockdale; 
•and  you  knew  it  was  to  be.  Why  should  you  side 
with  men  who  break  the  laws  like  this  ? ' 

'  Why  should  you  side  with  men  who  take  from 
country  traders  what  they  have  honestly  bought  wi' 
their  own  money  in  France  ? '  said  she  firmly. 

'  They  are  not  honestly  bought,'  said  he. 

*  They  are,'  she  contradicted.  '  I  and  Owlett  and 
the  others  paid  thirty  shillings  for  every  one  of  the 
tubs  before  they  were  put  on  board  at  Cherbourg,  and 
if  a  king  who  is  nothing  to  us  sends  his  people  to 
steal  our  property,  we  have  a  right  to  steal  it  back 
again.' 

Stockdale  did  not  stop  to  argue  the  matter,  but 
went  quickly  in  the  direction  of  the  noise,  Lizzy  keep- 
ing at  his  side.  '  Don't  you  interfere,  will  you,  dear 
Richard?'  she  said  anxiously,  as  they  drew  near. 
'  Don't  let  us  go  any  closer :  'tis  at  Warm'ell  Cross 
where  they  are  seizing  'em.  You  can  do  no  good,  and 
you  may  meet  with  a  hard  blow ! ' 

'Let  us  see  first  what  is  going  on,'  he  said.  But 
before  they  had  got  much  further  the  noise  of  the  cart- 
wheels began  again ;  and  Stockdale  soon  found  that 
they  were   coming  towards  him.     In  another   minute 

281 


WESSEX  TALES 

the  three  carts  came  up,  and  Stockdale  and  Lizzy  stood 
in  the  ditch  to  let  them  pass. 

Instead  of  being  conducted  by  four  men,  as  had 
happened  when  they  went  out  of  the  village,  the  horses 
and  carts  were  now  accompanied  by  a  body  of  from 
twenty  to  thirty,  all  of  whom,  as  Stockdale  perceived 
to  his  astonishment,  had  blackened  faces.  Among  them 
walked  six  or  eight  huge  female  figures,  whom,  from 
their  wide  strides,  Stockdale  guessed  to  be  men  in 
disguise.  As  soon  as  the  party  discerned  Lizzy  and 
her  companion  four  or  five  fell  back,  and  when  the 
carts  had  passed,  came  close  to  the  pair. 

•There  is  no  walking  up  this  way  for  the  present,' 
said  one  of  the  gaunt  women^  who  wore  curls  a  foot 
long,  dangling  down  the  sides  of  her  face,  in  the 
fashion  of  the  time.  Stockdale  recognized  this  lady's 
voice  as  Owlett's. 

'Why  not?'  said  Stockdale.  'This  is  the  public 
highway.' 

'  Now  look  here,  youngster,'  said  Owlett.  '  O,  'tis 
the  Methodist  parson ! — what,  and  Mrs.  Newberry ! 
Well,  you'd  better  not  go  up  that  way,  Lizzy.  They've 
all  run  off,  and  folks  have  got  their  own  again.' 

The  miller  then  hastened  on  and  joined  his  com- 
rades. Stockdale  and  Lizzy  also  turned  back.  '  I 
wish  all  this  hadn't  been  forced  upon  us,'  she  said 
regretfully.  '  But  if  those  excisemen  had  got  off  with 
the  tubs,  half  the  people  in  the  parish  would  have  been 
in  want  for  the  next  month  or  two.* 

Stockdale  was  not  paying  much  attention  to  her 
words,  and  he  said,  '  I  don't  think  I  can  go  back  like 
this.  Those  four  poor  excisemen  may  be  murdered 
for  all  I  know.' 

'  Murdered ! '  said  Lizzy  impatiently.  •  We  don't  do 
murder  here.' 

'Well,  I  shall  go  as  far  as  Warm'ell  Cross  to  see,' 
said  Stockdale  decisively ;  and,  without  wishing  her  safe 

282 


THE   DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

home  or  anything  else,  the  minister  turned  back,  I,izzy 
stood  looking  at  him  till  his  form  was  absorbed  in  the 
shades ;  and  then,  with  sadness,  she  went  in  the  direction 
of  Nether-Moynton. 

The  road  was  lonely,  and  after  nightfall  at  this 
time  of  the  year  there  was  often  not  a  passer  for  hours. 
Stockdale  pursued  his  way  without  hearing  a  sound 
beyond  that  of  his  own  footsteps;  and  in  due  time 
he  passed  beneath  the  trees  of  the  plantation  which 
surrounded  the  Warm'ell  Cross-road.  Before  he  had 
reached  the  point  of  intersection  he  heard  voices  from 
the  thicket. 

'  Hoi-hoi-hoi !     Help,  help  ! ' 

The  voices  were  not  at  all  feeble  or  despairing,  but 
they  were  unmistakably  anxious.  Stockdale  had  no 
weapon,  and  before  plunging  into  the  pitchy  darkness 
of  the  plantation  he  pulled  a  stake  from  the  hedge,  to 
use  in  case  of  need.  When  he  got  among  the  trees 
he  shouted — '  What's  the  matter — where  are  you  ? ' 

'  Here,'  answered  the  voices ;  and,  pushing  through 
the  brambles  in  that  direction,  he  came  near  the  objects 
of  his  search. 

'  Why  don't  you  come  forward  ? '  said  Stockdale. 

« We  be  tied  to  the  trees  ! ' 

*  Who  are  you  ? ' 

'Poor  Will  Latimer  the  exciseman!'  said  one 
plaintively.  'Just  come  and  cut  these  cords,  there's 
a  good  man.  We  were  afraid  nobody  would  pass  by 
to-night.' 

Stockdale  soon  loosened  them,  upon  which  they 
stretched  their  limbs  and  stood  at  their  ease. 

'  The  rascals  ! '  said  Latimer,  getting  now  into  a  rage, 
though  he  had  seemed  quite  meek  when  Stockdale  first 
came  up.  •  'Tis  the  same  set  of  fellows.  I  know  they 
were  Moynton  chaps  to  a  man.' 

'  But  we  can't  swear  to  'em,'  said  another.  '  Not  one 
of  'em  spoke.* 

283 


V^^SSEX  TALES 

•  A\Tiat  are  you  going  to  do  ? '  said  Stockdale. 

'  I'd  fain  go  back  to  Moynton,  and  have  at  'era 
again  ! '  said  Latimer. 

'  So  would  we ! '  said  his  comrades. 

'  Fight  till  we  die ! '  said  Latimer. 

'  We  will,  we  will !  *  said  his  men. 

'But,'  said  Latimer,  more  frigidly,  as  they  came  out 
of  the  plantation,  '  we  don't  knoiv  that  these  chaps  with 
black  faces  were  Moynton  men  ?  And  proof  is  a  hard 
thing.' 

'  So  it  is,*  said  the  rest. 

'And  therefore  we  won't  do  nothing  at  all,'  said 
Latimer,  with  complete  dispassionateness.  '  For  my 
part,  I'd  sooner  be  them  than  we.  The  ditches  of  my 
arms  are  burning  like  fire  from  the  cords  those  two 
strapping  women  tied  round  'em.  My  opinion  is,  now 
I  have  had  time  to  think  o't,  that  you  may  serve  your 
Gover'ment  at  too  high  a  price.  For  these  two  nights 
and  days  I  have  not  had  an  hour's  rest;  and,  please 
God,  here's  for  home-along.' 

The  otlier  officers  agreed  heartily  to  this  course ;  and, 
thanking  Stockdale  for  his  timely  assistance,  they  parted 
from  him  at  the  Cross,  taking  themselves  the  western 
road,  and  Stockdale  going  back  to  Nether-Moynton. 

During  that  walk  the  minister  was  lost  in  reverie 
of  the  most  painful  kind.  As  soon  as  he  got  into  the 
house,  and  before  entering  his  own  rooms,  he  advanced 
to  the  door  of  the  little  back  parlour  in  which  Lizzy 
usually  sat  with  her  mother.  He  found  her  there  alone. 
Stockdale  went  forward,  and,  like  a  man  in  a  dream, 
looked  down  upon  the  table  that  stood  between  him 
and  the  young  woman,  who  had  her  bonnet  and  cloak 
still  on.  As  he  did  not  speak,  she  looked  up  from  her 
chair  at  him,  with  misgiving  in  her  eye. 

'  Where  are  they  gone  ?  '  he  then  said  Hstlessly. 

'Who? — I  don't  know.  I  have  seen  nothing  of 
them  since.     I  came  straight  in  here.' 

284 


THE   DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

'  If  your  men  can  manage  to  get  off  with  those  tubs, 
it  will  be  a  great  profit  to  you,  I  suppose  ? ' 

'  A  share  will  be  mine,  a  share  my  cousin  Owlett's, 
a  share  to  each  of  the  two  farmers,  and  a  share  divided 
amongst  the  men  who  helped  us.' 

'  And  you  still  think,'  he  went  on  slowly,  '  that  you 
will  not  give  this  business  up  ? ' 

I.izzy  rose,  and  put  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 
'Don't  ask  that,'  she  whispered.  'You  don't  know 
what  you  are  asking.  I  must  tell  you,  though  I  meant 
not  to  do  it.  WTiat  I  make  by  that  trade  is  all  I  have 
to  keep  my  mother  and  myself  with.' 

He  was  astonished.  'I  did  not  dream  of  such  a 
thing,'  he  said.  '  I  would  rather  have  swept  the  streets, 
had  I  been  you.  What  is  money  compared  with  a  clear 
conscience  ? ' 

'My  conscience  is  clear.  I  know  my  mother,  but 
the  king  I  have  never  seen.  His  dues  are  nothing  to 
me.  But  it  is  a  great  deal  to  me  that  my  mother  and 
I  should  live.' 

*  Marry  me,  and  promise  to  give  it  up.  I  will  keep 
your  mother.' 

•  It  is  good  of  you,'  she  said,  trembling  a  little. 
'Let  me  think  of  it  by  myself.  I  would  rather  not 
answer  now.' 

She  reserved  her  answer  till  the  next  day,  and  came 
into  his  room  with  a  solemn  face.  '  I  cannot  do  what 
you  wished ! '  she  said  passionately.  '  It  is  too  much 
to  ask.  My  whole  Hfe  ha'  been  passed  in  this  way.' 
Her  words  and  manner  showed  that  before  entering 
she  had  been  struggling  \nth  herself  in  private,  and  that 
the  contention  had  been  strong. 

Stockdale  turned  pale,  but  he  spoke  quietly.  '  Then, 
Lizzy,  we  must  part.  I  cannot  go  against  my  principles 
in  this  matter,  and  I  cannot  make  my  profession  a 
mockery.  You  know  how  I  love  you,  and  what  I 
would  do  for  you ;  but  this  one  thing  I  cannot  do.* 

285 


WESSEX  TALES 

•But  why  should  you  belong  to  that  profession?' 
she  burst  out.  '  I  have  got  this  large  house ;  why  can't 
you  marry  me,  and  live  here  with  us,  and  not  be  a 
Methodist  preacher  any  more  ?  I  assure  you,  Richard, 
it  is  no  harm,  and  I  wish  you  could  only  see  it  as  I  do ! 
We  only  carry  it  on  in  winter :  in  summer  it  is  never 
done  at  all.  It  stirs  up  one's  dull  life  at  this  time  o' 
the  year,  and  gives  excitement,  which  I  have  got  so 
used  to  now  that  I  should  hardly  know  how  to  do 
'ithout  it.  At  nights,  when  the  wind  blows,  instead  of 
being  dull  and  stupid,  and  not  noticing  whether  it  do 
blow  or  not,  your  mind  is  afield,  even  if  you  are  not 
afield  yourself;  and  you  are  wondering  how  the  chaps 
are  getting  on ;  and  you  walk  up  and  down  the  room, 
and  look  out  o'  window,  and  then  you  go  out  yourself, 
and  know  your  way  about  as  well  by  night  as  by  day, 
and  have  hairbreadth  escapes  from  old  Latimer  and  his 
fellows,  who  are  too  stupid  ever  to  really  frighten  us, 
and  only  make  us  a  bit  nimble.' 

'  He  frightened  you  a  little  last  night,  anyhow :  and 
I  would  advise  you  to  drop  it  before  it  is  worse.' 

She  shook  her  head.  '  No,  I  must  go  on  as  I  have 
begun.  I  was  born  to  it.  It  is  in  my  blood,  and  I 
can't  be  cured.  O,  Richard,  you  cannot  think  what 
a  hard  thing  you  have  asked,  and  how  sharp  you  try 
me  when  you  put  me  between  this  and  my  love  for  'ee ! ' 

Stockdale  was  leaning  with  his  elbow  on  the  mantel- 
piece, his  hands  over  his  eyes.  *We  ought  never  to 
have  met,  Lizzy,'  he  said.  *  It  was  an  ill  day  for  us ! 
I  little  thought  there  was  anything  so  hopeless  and 
impossible  in  our  engagement  as  this.  Well,  it  is  too 
late  now  to  regret  consequences  in  this  way.  I  have 
had  the  happiness  of  seeing  you  and  knomng  you 
at  least.' 

*  You  dissent  from  Church,  and  I  dissent  from 
State,'  she  said.  'And  I  don't  see  why  we  are  not 
well  matched.' 

286 


THE   DISTRACTED  PREACHER 

He  smiled  sadly,  while  Lizzy  remained  looking  down, 
her  eyes  beginning  to  overflow. 

That  was  an  unhappy  evening  for  both  of  them,  and 
the  days  that  followed  were  unhappy  days.  Both  she 
and  he  went  mechanically  about  their  employments,  and 
his  depression  was  marked  in  the  village  by  more  than 
one  of  his  denomination  with  whom  he  came  in  contact. 
But  Lizzy,  who  passed  her  days  indoors,  was  unsuspected 
of  being  the  cause :  for  it  was  generally  understood  that 
a  quiet  engagement  to  marry  existed  between  her  and 
her  cousin  Owlett,  and  had  existed  for  some  time. 

Thus  uncertainly  the  week  passed  on ;  till  one  morn- 
ing Stockdale  said  to  her :  '  I  have  had  a  letter,  Lizzy. 
I  must  call  you  that  till  I  am  gone.* 

*  Gone  ? '  said  she  blankly. 

*  Yes,'  he  said.  '  I  am  going  from  this  place.  I 
felt  it  would  be  better  for  us  both  that  I  should  not 
stay  after  what  has  happened.  In  fact,  I  couldn't  stay 
here,  and  look  on  you  from  day  to  day,  without  be- 
coming weak  and  faltering  in  my  course.  I  have  just 
heard  of  an  arrangement  by  which  the  other  minister 
can  arrive  here  in  about  a  week ;  and  let  me  go  else- 
where.' 

That  he  had  all  this  time  continued  so  firmly  fixed 
in  his  resolution  came  upon  her  as  a  grievous  surprise. 
*  You  never  loved  me  ! '  she  said  bitterly. 

*  I  might  say  the  same,'  he  returned ;  *  but  I  will 
not.  Grant  me  one  favour.  Come  and  hear  my  last 
sermon  on  the  day  before  I  go.' 

Lizzy,  who  was  a  church-goer  on  Sunday  mornings, 
frequently  attended  Stockdale's  chapel  in  the  evening 
with  the  rest  of  the  double-minded  ;  and  she  promised. 

It  became  known  that  Stockdale  was  going  to  leave, 
and  a  good  many  people  outside  his  own  sect  were  sorry 
to  liesir  it.  The  intervening  days  flew  rapidly  away, 
and  on  the  evening  of  the  Sunday  which  preceded  the 
morning  of  his  departure  Lizzy  sat  in  the  chapel  to  hear 

287 


WESSEX  TALES 

him  for  the  last  time.  The  little  building  was  full  to 
overflowing,  and  he  took  up  the  subject  which  all  had 
expected,  that  of  the  contraband  trade  so  extensively 
practised  among  them.  His  hearers,  in  laying  his 
words  to  their  own  hearts,  did  not  perceive  that  they 
were  most  particularly  directed  against  Lizzy,  till  the 
sermon  waxed  warm,  and  Stockdale  nearly  broke  down 
with  emotion.  In  truth  his  own  earnestness,  and  her 
sad  eyes  looking  up  at  him,  were  too  much  for  the 
young  man's  equanimity.  He  hardly  knew  how  he 
ended.  He  saw  Lizzy,  as  through  a  mist,  turn  and  go 
away  with  the  rest  of  the  congregation;  and  shortly 
afterwards  followed  her  home. 

She  invited  him  to  supper,  and  they  sat  down  alone, 
her  mother  having,  as  was  usual  with  her  on  Sunday 
nights,  gone  to  bed  early. 

*  We  will  part  friends,  won't  we  ? '  said  Lizzy,  with 
forced  gaiety,  and  never  alluding  to  the  sermon :  a 
reticence  which  rather  disappointed  him. 

'  We  will,'  he  said,  with  a  forced  smile  on  his  part  ; 
and  they  sat  down. 

It  was  the  first  meal  that  they  had  ever  shared 
together  in  their  lives,  and  probably  the  last  that  they 
would  so  share.  When  it  was  over,  and  the  indifferent 
conversation  could  no  longer  be  continued,  he  arose 
and  took  her  hand.  'Lizzy,*  he  said,  'do  you  say  we 
must  part — do  you  ? ' 

'  You  do,'  she  said  solemnly.  '  I  can  say  no 
more.' 

'Nor  I,'  said  he.  'If  that  is  your  answer,  good- 
bye!' 

Stockdale  bent  over  her  and  kissed  her,  and  she 
involuntarily  returned  his  kiss.  '  I  shall  go  early,'  he 
said  hurriedly.     '  I  shall  not  see  you  again.' 

And  he  did  leave  early.  He  fancied,  when  stepping 
forth  into  the  grey  morning  light,  to  mount  the  van 
which  was  to  carry  him  away,  that  he  saw  a  face  between 

288 


THE  DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

the  parted  curtains  of  Lizzy's  window,  but  the  light  was 
faint,  and  the  panes  glistened  with  wet;  so  he  coald 
not  be  sure.  Stockdale  mounted  the  vehicle,  and  was 
gone;  and  on  the  following  Sunday  the  new  minister 
preached  in  the  chapel  of  the  Moynton  Wesleyans. 

One  day,  two  years  after  the  parting,  Stockdale,  now 
settled  in  a  midland  town,  came  into  Nether-Moynton 
by  carrier  in  the  original  way.  Jogging  along  in  the 
van  that  afternoon  he  had  put  questions  to  the  driver, 
and  the  answers  that  he  received  interested  the  minister 
deeply.  The  result  of  them  was  that  he  went  without 
the  least  hesitation  to  the  door  of  his  former  lodging. 
It  was  about  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  the  same 
time  of  year  as  when  he  had  left ;  now,  too,  the  ground 
was  damp  and  glistening,  the  west  was  bright,  and 
Lizzy's  snowdrops  were  raising  their  heads  in  the  border 
under  the  wall. 

Lizzy  must  have  caught  sight  of  him  from  the  window, 
for  by  the  time  that  he  reached  the  door  she  was  there 
holding  it  open  :  and  then,  as  if  she  had  not  sufficiently 
considered  her  act  of  coming  out,  she  drew  herself  back, 
saying  with  some  constraint,  '  Mr.  Stockdale ! ' 

'  You  knew  it  was,'  said  Stockdale,  taking  her  hand. 
*  I  wrote  to  say  I  should  call.' 

'  Yes,  but  you  did  not  say  when,'  she  answered. 

'  I  did  not.  I  was  not  quite  sure  when  my  business 
would  lead  me  to  these  parts.' 

'You  only  came  because  business  brought  you 
near  ? ' 

*  Well,  that  is  the  fact ;  but  I  have  often  thought  I 
should  like  to  come  on  purpose  to  see  you.  .  .  .  But 
what's  all  this  that  has  happened  ?  I  told  you  how  it 
would  be,  Lizzy,  and  you  would  not  listen  to  me.' 

'  I  would  not,'  she  said  sadly.  *  But  I  had  been 
brought  up  to  that  life;  and  it  was  second  nature  to 
me.     However,  it  is  all  over  now.     The  officers  have 

289  X 


WESSEX  TALES 

blood-money  for  taking  a  man  dead  or  alive,  and  the 
trade  is  going  to  nothing.  We  were  hunted  down  like 
rats.' 

'  Owlett  is  quite  gone,  I  hear.* 

'Yes.  He  is  in  America.  We  had  a  dreadful 
struggle  that  last  time,  when  they  tried  to  take  him. 
It  is  a  perfect  miracle  that  he  lived  through  it;  and  it 
is  a  wonder  that  I  was  not  killed.  I  was  shot  in  the 
hand.  It  was  not  by  aim ;  the  shot-  was  really  meant 
for  my  cousin ;  but  I  was  behind,  looking  on  as  usual, 
and  the  bullet  came  to  me.  It  bled  terribly,  but  I  got 
home  without  fainting ;  and  it  healed  after  a  time.  You 
know  how  he  suffered  ? ' 

*No,'  said  Stockdale.  *I  only  heard  that  he  just 
escaped  with  his  life.' 

'  He  was  shot  in  the  back ;  but  a  rib  turned  the 
ball.  He  was  badly  hurt.  We  would  not  let  him  be 
took.  The  men  carried  him  all  night  across  the  meads 
to  Kingsbere,  and  hid  him  in  a  barn,  dressing  his  wound 
as  well  as  they  could,  till  he  was  so  far  recovered  as  to 
be  able  to  get  about.  He  had  gied  up  his  mill  for  some 
time ;  and  at  last  he  got  to  Bristol,  and  took  a  passage 
to  America,  and  he's  settled  in  Wisconsin.' 

*  What  do  you  think  of  smuggling  now  ? '  said  the 
minister  gravely. 

'  I  own  that  we  were  wrong,'  said  she.  '  But  I 
have  suffered  for  it.  I  am  very  poor  now,  and  my 
mother  has  been  dead  these  twelve  months.  .  .  .  But 
won't  you  come  in,  Mr.  Stockdale  ?  ' 

Stockdale  went  in;  and  it  is  to  be  supposed  that 
they  came  to  an  understanding ;  for  a  fortnight  later 
there  was  a  sale  of  Lizzy's  furniture,  and  after  that  a 
wedding  at  a  chapel  in  a  neighbouring  town. 

He  took  her  away  from  her  old  haunts  to  the  home 
that  he  had  made  for  himself  in  his  native  county, 
where  she  studied  her  duties  as  a  minister's  wife  with 
praiseworthy  assiduity.     It  is  said  that  in  after  years  she 

290 


Jw- 


THE  DISTRACTED   PREACHER 

wrote  an  excellent  tract  called  Render  unto  Ccesar;  or, 
The  Repentant  Villagers,  in  which  her  own  experience 
was  anonymously  used  as  the  introductory  story. 
Stockdale  got  it  printed,  after  making  some  corrections, 
and  putting  in  a  few  powerful  sentences  of  his  own  ;  and 
many  hundreds  of  copies  were  distributed  by  the  couple 
in  the  course  of  their  married  life. 

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